Unwanted Blood (Harper) novel Chapter 1

Harper’s POV

I was an illegitimate child, the product of rape. My mom gave her life to bring me into this world.

And my four brothers took much delight in reminding me that I killed our mom and destroyed the family the moment I took my first breath. No one wanted me. I was the sinner of this family.

I’d long since accepted this fact, but it still hurt.

Today was my 16-year-old birthday, also the day I dread most in the year. I admired my brothers, who can laugh and rejoice on their birthday. Cake. Presents. People singing off-key and laughing. But I didn’t deserve any of it, and I never would.

In my room, I curled myself in the corner, pulled my knees up, wrapped my arms around them as tears fell down and made a little puddle on the floor.

My eyes drifted up to the crumpled paper on the wall across where I sat. It was the rules my brothers set for me. They were boldly written in red marker against the dirty yellow paper to represent me, dirty and unwanted.

Rule 1: Do NOT speak to us unless we speak to you first.

They rarely talk to me, and even when they do, it’s just to insult me.

Rule 2: Do NOT look at us in the eye.

I don’t deserve respect.

Rule 3: Do NOT stay in the same room with us for more than 5 minutes unless it’s mealtime.

But there were times when I was just eating normally, and they’d still curse at me and punish me anyway.

So clearly, they were the rules themselves.

At the bottom of the rules was written in bolder than the rules: IF VIOLATED, THE CONSEQUENCES WILL BE AT YOUR OWN RISK.

They made sure I understood from a very young age that I wasn’t worthy of love. They never laid a hand on me physically, but they broke me with verbal abuse and emotional manipulation. That was all they knew how to do. I told myself I should feel grateful they never hurt my body.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. The fabric was already damp. I looked at my arms where were covered in self-harm scars. The fresh cuts were still healing under the long sleeves. The pain from those cuts gave me a tiny bit of relief from the constant agony I endured every day.

I remember the first time I tried to end it, I was eight.

I didn’t know what rape meant back then. Then I read the definition on the internet, read what it did to women, read what it meant for kids born that way. That night I took a kitchen knife and sat on the floor of my room trying to figure out where to put it.

My eldest brother Ryder found me, and he took me to the hospital.

When I woke up in bed with the white sheets and the beeping machines, he was sitting in the chair. He looked at me coldly and his every word felt like a slap.

“You already ruined our lives once,” he said. “You really trying to do it again? You made us spend money on you for nothing. Stupid and selfish. Remember that, without my permission, you’re not allowed to die.”

Just thinking about it makes it hard to breathe. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing. When my heart finally stopped hammering so hard, Lily’s face appeared in my mind.

She was my cousin. One year younger than me. The only person who was ever kind to me.

Whenever she comes over, she finds a way to slip upstairs. Sometimes she brings little bags of chips or candy bars she bought with her allowance. Sometimes she brings books she finished and thinks I’ll like. Most of the time she just sits on the floor with me and talks. About school. About stupid TikTok videos. About anything that isn’t this house.

She always says the same thing before she leaves.

“This wasn’t your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”

I wanted to believe her so badly. But when she left and the house got quiet again, the words felt farther away.

The wall clock ticked causing me to glance up. It was 5 o’clock, and in another half an hour, my relatives would arrive to commemorate my mother’s death anniversary. I had to be there, not because I was needed but because they needed someone to blame.

I’m used to it.

I stood up from the corner, and my legs felt numb from sitting curled up for too long. I stumbled into the bathroom and leaned against the sink, staring up at my thin reflection in the mirror, from the small frame to the red eyes and pale skin, I looked so emaciated, and yet, they still called me ‘fat pig’.

Whenever they wanted to punish me, my brothers would withhold my food for days, causing me to starve. I got used to it over time that eating made me sick sometimes. I became anorexic, as the internet said.

Lily got scared when she knew that. She started texting me at night.

“Please eat something, Harp. Even just a little. I don’t want to lose you.”

I didn’t want to lose her either.

So I started sneaking down to the kitchen after midnight when everyone was asleep. I’d open the fridge, grab whatever was left, like cold rice, a piece of chicken someone forgot to throw away, or half a sandwich, and force it down standing at the counter.

I opened the drawer under mirror and took out the concealer I’d bought with the little money Lily slipped me last month. I dotted it under my eyes, patted it in with shaky fingers. Then I rolled up my sleeves just enough to cover the worst of the scars and smeared more over them. Layer after layer until the red lines disappeared.

They didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to give them one more reason to tell me how ugly I was.

I knew better than anyone how worthless I was.