The Sister's Revenge

My name's Blair Scott. Since I was a kid, I've had a sharp tongue—not the kind that throws tantrums, but the kind that hits right where it hurts. When I was ten, Madam Clark was gossiping at the alley entrance, saying my mom couldn't have a son and that no one would care for her when she got old. I dragged a little stool to her doorstep and yelled nonstop for three hours. From her sneaking eggs from the neighbor's yard to her son cheating on exams, Madam Clark finally covered her ears and shoved a piece of brown sugar cake into my hands just to shut me up. When I was fifteen, Mr. Lee from the town grabbed half an acre of our family's rice paddy, claiming he wanted to build some ‘Service Station for the People'—but really, he just wanted a wedding house for his own son. With secretly recorded audio in my pocket, I crouched outside the town hall, handing out the comics I drew—Mr. Lee, with his chubby head and big ears, trampling on our rice seedlings. Less than two weeks later, Mr. Lee got fired. Because of this mouth of mine, my family caught a ton of backlash—blankets left out in the yard got splattered with ink, and just-ripe corn was snapped clean in half. Mom and Dad always called me a 'troublemaker,' but when I was eighteen, they gritted their teeth, took out a 120,000 loan, and sent me abroad to study Media. It ended up lasting eight years. I landed a decent job overseas, was thinking about bringing my parents over, when I got a call from home. It was my uncle, his voice shaking, saying, "Blair, you've got to come back. Shirley... she's about to die." Shirley's my little sister, five years younger than me. She's always been quiet, never dared to raise her voice, but somehow, powered by this stubborn grit, she got into River University. I booked a flight overnight, went over ten hours without sleep, and the minute I landed, I raced straight to the hospital. When I pushed the door open, I just stood there, stunned. The girl in the bed had an oxygen tube, her head wrapped in thick bandages, her face so swollen I couldn't even recognize her, with needle marks all over the back of her hand. Mom was hunched over the bed, crying, her hair more than half white. Dad was squatting in the corner, cigarette butts scattered everywhere. "What happened?" My throat feels dry and sore. Mom lifted her head, tears still clinging to her face. "Shirley had just started her sophomore year when rumors spread that she was involved with a professor; they even circulated nude photos of her in a group chat. People cornered her, shouted insults, and in the end... they pushed her off the third floor of the academic building. The doctor said she might never wake up." I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles went white. River University—I remember it clearly. I won't let a single one of those who bullied Shirley get away. The next day, I walked through the gates of River University with Shirley's student ID in my pocket. The sunlight was blinding, but I felt nothing but a cold chill all over. I'm majoring in Shirley's field—Journalism and Communication. On the very first day of class, I deliberately got there ten minutes early, snagged a seat by the window, and had just pulled out my textbook when a bucket of stuff got dumped right on my head. Sticky red paint dripped down my hair and splattered on my white shirt, looking just like blood. "Yo, isn't this Shirley Scott?" A girl surrounded by a crowd walked over slowly. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were filled with malice. Later, I found out her name was Tina Jones—the heiress of Jones Real Estate Group. "What, breaking your leg wasn't enough? You still have the nerve to come to school?" Everyone around was laughing; the guys' laughs were greasy, the girls' were sharp. A tall, skinny guy leaned in, eyes flicking to my chest, and said, "Shirley, I saw those nude photos of yours. Nice body. Want to date me? I promise I'm way more generous than those old creeps." "Eric, your taste is seriously twisted." A girl next to him shoved him away, dripping with contempt. I recognized her as Vivian, Tina Jones's lackey. Eric Shawn didn't take it seriously and even winked at Tina Jones, saying, "I was just kidding. I only love Tina." Tina Jones playfully smacked him and said, "Don't talk nonsense." She dragged out her words on purpose, the sarcasm dripping off, then added, "Too bad she's no good—she sells her body for money." She stared right at my face, waiting for me to break down. I just wiped the red paint off my face and said coolly, "Tina Jones, you just got out of the hospital? Your abortion wasn't even two weeks ago, and you're already back to school?" The moment the words left my mouth, the classroom went dead silent—you could hear a pin drop. Tina Jones's face went pale, and she snapped, "What nonsense are you talking about? I don't even have a boyfriend, so there's no way I'm pregnant!" I scoffed, pulled a notebook out of my backpack, and said, "But I saw you walk into the OB ward at the city women's hospital. And this medical record book is exactly like the one there." Whispers started spreading. Someone said, "I knew something was up when Tina Jones took that leave. No wonder she's been wearing baggy clothes lately—probably hiding a belly. Maybe the baby's Eric Shawn's. Did you see the way he looked just now?" Tina Jones was shaking with rage. She grabbed the pencil case on the desk and hurled it at the girl who was talking, yelling, "Shut your mouth! If anyone else spouts lies, I'll have my dad shut down your entire family!"