Chapter 4

I hadn't eaten in a day and a night and was now ravenous.

Noticing my small movements of swallowing and covering my stomach, my mom's smile remained, but her eyes gradually turned cold.

She scooped out a ladle of slop from the swill bucket in the corner and poured it in front of me.

"Eat. You were born to be lowly."

"Can't let you actually starve to death. What would happen to Claire then?"

The foul smell rushed straight into my nostrils.

My vision darkened as I lay on the ground, struggling to breathe.

Uncle Sam murmured:

"How is this food for humans?"

My mom looked down at him imperiously and glanced at him coldly.

"Mind your own business."

I don't know how much time passed before the door was pulled open.

Mr. Baker walked in, his whole body reeking of blood from years of butchering pigs.

He habitually stroked his beard and looked at me coldly.

He coldly rebuked my parents behind him:

"A girl like this isn't worth my effort. Too embarrassing. I'm not doing it."

With that, he picked up his boning knife and was about to leave.

But after just a few steps, my mom stopped him.

"Don't want the money anymore?"

Mr. Baker's face turned ashen. He glared at my mom.

Muttering curses under his breath, he roughly drove everyone out of the cellar.

"I don't like people watching when I work. Get out, get out, get out."

He took a puff of his pipe and looked at me earnestly:

"Child, I don't want to hurt you."

"You look about the same age as a child who left our village. Just agree to whatever they're asking you to do."

I shook my head desperately with my hoarse voice, tears streaming down my face.

Mr. Baker had always been good to me since I was little. Though he was a butcher, he loved reading and writing.

I learned to read and write from him.

Thinking of this, I slowly moved my blood-stained fingertip across the ground.

But under the severe pain, my whole body trembled and my hand spasmed, turning each stroke into illegible scribbles.

Mr. Baker sighed:

"Girl, I can't understand what you're writing."

"Can you speak?"

I shook my head, gasping nervously.

If I missed this opportunity, it would truly be over.

What else could prove my identity?

I wracked my brain.

Right, the birthmark!

I had a crescent-shaped birthmark on my forearm that everyone in the village knew about.

I was ecstatic and struggled to bite and tear at the cloth binding my hands.

As long as he saw the birthmark, Mr. Baker would recognize my identity immediately.

Perceiving my intention, Mr. Baker put down his pipe and walked over.

Just as I was about to roll up my sleeve, my dad pushed the door open and entered. His gaze fell on my untied hands.

His face darkened.

"What's the meaning of this?"

I whimpered desperately, growling to get Mr. Baker to look at me.

My mom immediately spotted the crooked bloody writing on the ground.

Her face changed dramatically as she drove him out.

I watched helplessly as Uncle Sam left with Mr. Baker, then a slap came flying.

The scratch from her long nails burned painfully on my cheek.

My mom snorted coldly:

"This damn girl is trying to send messages to others."

My dad said nothing. He took down a hammer from the wall.

He pressed me down forcefully and smashed my fingers one by one right in front of me.

"This is what happens when you don't behave."