Tycoon's Twisted Woman

1- Life?

Life?

Isn't life unpredictable? It's the very nature of the universe. We are born crying, and from the moment we leave the womb, life begins teaching us lessons. Crying is crucial-it signals that we're alive and initiates the transition from fetal circulation.

But what if we don't cry? They say crying makes you stronger. I don't know about that. To me, crying is just a way to express pain, to release the hurt through tears. It may not erase the pain, but it can certainly lighten the load.

I didn't cry though. I kept the pain inside because pain, in its own way, makes us stronger. We never stop learning from it-whether it's from falling while taking our first steps, learning to ride a bicycle, or enduring emotional wounds that aren't visible like physical ones.

But who causes these emotional injuries? Why do we feel hurt? Is it a first crush? Love? Friends? ...Family?

Outsiders don't have the power to hurt us emotionally. It's the people closest to us who can. Why does their wrongdoings hurt us so deeply? The answer is simple: we expect, we trust, we have faith in them, and we love them. And because of that, when they let us down, the emotional pain is real.

Life is a journey full of lessons, often delivered through pain, hurt, hope, expectations, faith, and tears. Life is a rollercoaster-moments of joy followed by unexpected drops. When we're up, we enjoy the ride, but the fall scares us. Doesn't it? It does.

Life is a cruel reality for some and a beautiful dream for others. Some are content with little, while others remain unhappy despite having everything. Life is full of emotions, ups, and downs.

I look at the woman standing in front of me-my mom. Or should I say, *was* my mom? She despises me.

I can't be a burden on her anymore. She was so angry when I dared to respond to her accusations. To her, speaking back is an insult to her authority as an elder.

Can't we express ourselves and correct our elders when they're wrong? But when I continued the argument, she lost control. She grabbed a knife from the fruit basket on the table and stabbed me near my heart.

I stood there, emotionless, unable to process why this was happening.

Was it because I voiced my opinion?

The wound starts to bleed, slowly.

Her eyes show nothing but hatred and anger. She's not a bad person, but when she gets angry, she loses control.

Dad is standing beside her, expressionless. Even after seeing her stab me, he didn't try to stop her. Slowly, she sat down, exhausted, and Dad held her close. No guilt, no tears-just exhaustion, because of me.

I look at them both before pulling the knife out of my chest. The pain is excruciating, but I don't let it show-not in my face, not in my eyes. I gaze at the blood-covered knife for a moment before dropping it on the floor in front of them.

The clinking sound of the knife hitting the floor breaks the silence. A few drops of blood splatter on the ground.

I slip on the black woollen jacket that I had in my hand and walk out, leaving the house.

The wound continues to bleed, and the pain is becoming unbearable. I'm feeling dizzy from the blood loss. In the cold December night, sweat covers my body as I make my way slowly to the chemist.

When I finally reach the shop, I lean against the counter, taking a deep breath before calling out, "Um... anyone there?" My voice is strained; the pain in my left shoulder is unbearable.

"Yes?" A man appears, probably the owner.

"I need some supplies," I say as normally as I can.

"Sure," he replies with a smile.

"I need cotton, bandages, antiseptic, stitches tape, painkillers, and a tetanus shot..." I begin listing.

"Are you hurt?" He interrupts, clearly concerned.

His question catches me off guard.

"You're sweating in this cold, taking deep breaths like you're in pain, and I think I see blood on your left arm. I can help," he says.

I nod slightly before taking off my jacket, revealing the blood-soaked top. As I slide off the left side of the shirt, the wound becomes visible.

"Oh God! You're stabbed! Why aren't you in a hospital? This needs serious attention. It'll become a police case," he says, panicking.

"I don't have the money for a hospital. If you can just help treat this, I would be grateful. I don't want the police involved," I respond, taking another deep breath to manage the pain.

He helps me into the back room, and I sit down on a stool.

"I'm cleaning the wound with antiseptic; it will sting," he warns.

I brace myself. As the antiseptic touches the wound, it burns like fire. With steady hands, he cleans the area, stitches it with tape, and covers it with a bandage. Then he gives me a tetanus shot, though I barely feel it because of the numbness.

"Here, take this-it's a painkiller." He hands me some tablets and a bottle of water.

After resting for a while, I pay him online and leave the shop, heading back home.

When I get back, I find the door still open, just as I left it. The pain has numbed thanks to the medication. My parents are gone. I pick up the bloodied knife and clean it carefully, ensuring no traces are left behind.

Once that's done, I pack a bag with my essentials-documents, savings, some clothes-and set it aside. I lie down on the bed, thinking about everything that's happened.

Can life be any crueler?

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