Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

"UGHH—!"

A twisting pain in my gut yanked me back to consciousness.

My stomach cried out, a hollow, gnawing ache that spread through my limbs, reminding me that I had failed.

Again.

I blinked, forcing my eyes open to the hazy morning light.

My body was stiff, curled up against the hot, filthy ground.

Dried blood caked my face and matted my hair.

I was a mess.

People walked past me like I was just another piece of trash littering the streets.

Not a single glance spared, not a single word spoken.

Just the steady rhythm of their footsteps, each one hammering in the reality of what I had become.

It wasn't that none of them were kind, no, likely many of them were.

But they all knew how I became what I became.

They knew that I had betrayed them.

They despised me.

Only the kindest of the kind would help someone they despised.

These people weren't of that type.

So, no one helped me.

Again, it was only natural, expected.

It didn't hurt me.

It... didn't.

I exhaled, forcing my body upright, pain lancing through my ribs.

I didn't remember how many times they hit me, but my body remembered.

Every movement sent waves of agony rippling through my bones.

Leaning against the rough wall of a rundown building, I steadied myself and took a breath.

"I have to get back."

Time blurred as I walked.

Hours? Minutes? I didn't know.

I just moved, one unsteady step after another, through the maze of alleyways until I reached the place we called home.

A shoddy alcove, boxed in by wooden sheets and discarded crates.

A mockery of a shelter, but a shelter nonetheless.

My wife was the first to see me.

The moment her eyes landed on me, a mix of relief and horror twisted across her face.

She rushed forward, hands hovering near my injuries but never quite touching, afraid she might hurt me more.

Her lips trembled, words stuck in her throat, but her eyes said everything.

She still worried for me.

She still cared.

I wanted to thank her.

I wanted to hold her, to let her warmth replace the cold fire that had settled deep in my bones.

But before I could, a small voice cut through the fragile moment.

"Dish you bring foooood?"

My second son.

My youngest.

He looked up at me, hope flickering in his eyes, his tiny hands curled into fists at his sides.

And I—I had nothing.

My throat tightened.

"I... I wasn't..."

I opened my mouth, but the words caught.

I swallowed and tried again, forcing out the truth:

"I couldn't bring any. But I—"

"You're so usehless! You—you can't do anyshhing right!"

The words struck me harder than any fist ever could.

Something inside me cracked.

Before I even realized it, I had stepped forward, my hand already moving.

Smack!

The sound echoed in the cramped space, louder than I thought possible.

My son staggered back, eyes wide, his hands shooting up to his cheek where a red mark was already forming.

Time slowed.

The shock on his face.

The silence that followed.

The way his tiny frame trembled.

I had hit him.

I hit my own son.

I staggered back as bile rose in my throat.

My wife gasped, rushing to our child, shielding him from me, from his own father.

My eldest did the same, pushing my daughter behind him, shielding her from ME.

I wanted to say something, to take it back, to undo what I had just done.

But I couldn't.

Because it happened.

Because I did it.

I turned and ran.

My feet carried me away, deeper into the alley, away from them, away from the shame, away from what I had become.

My breath came in ragged gasps; my vision blurred.

Thoughts spiraled in my head, twisting, clawing, suffocating me.

Why? Why did I do that?

I was never like this.

I had never raised a hand against my children.

I never wanted to. I promised myself I never would.

But I did.

"I-It-It wasn't my fault..."

I muttered, shaking.

"It's because I was tense—the hunger, those drunks—they were the ones at fault, not me. Yes, I did nothing wrong. I'm a victim."

I fell to my knees, my hands gripping my face.

"This isn't fair... This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't our life."

I whispered, voice cracking.

"We don't deserve this."

The weight of everything crushed down on me all at once.

The hunger, the exhaustion, the fear, the shame, the regret—it all collapsed onto me, leaving no space to breathe.

My mouth opened, but the words didn't come.

Only a scream did.

A raw, guttural, agonized scream that tore through the silence of the alley, erupting from the deepest pit of my soul.

"FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKK!!"

…

Eventually, I calmed down, and all went back to normal.

But something was amiss.

Me.

I couldn't work. I couldn't beg. I couldn't even scrape for trash.

My body was too battered, my spirit too drained.

The slums had stripped me bare, leaving me with nothing but a gnawing hunger and a family staring at me with empty stomachs and hollow eyes.

And so… seeing the state I was in, my wife asked if she could step up.

Sell her body.

The mother of my children chose to become a prostitute.

This… this was something I had feared more than anything.

The thought had lurked in the back of my mind ever since we got here, whispering its vile suggestions whenever we went another night without food.

I tried to ignore it, to push it down, but it festered there, waiting.

While I wouldn't deny feeling some regret for rejecting the gang's offer back then, that regret always disappeared when I saw my wife smile at my arrival, welcoming me home.

At those moments, I would always thank the Twelve Moons for my decision.

Yet… look at me now.

I was scared for her. That was certain. But there was something else, something ugly, something I couldn't bring myself to voice.

And I hated myself for it.

Uttering it felt like a dare beyond my ability, so I immediately stopped dwelling on it and focused my mind on making a decision.

I would lose what little dignity I had left.

I would let go of the last sliver of pride that clung to me like a tattered cloak.

But I… I couldn't bring myself to reject her.

"The kids need to eat."