I Was His Best Weapon

My name is Cynthia Jordan. When I was fifteen, my life was shattered into pieces. The year before, we still lived in a respectable home, but overnight it all collapsed. My father's investment failed miserably, leaving him with countless debts. Those who once flattered our family turned cold in an instant. Debt collectors blocked the door, smashing everything in the house they could. Shards of glass mixed with my father's sighs littered the floor. I crouched behind my grandma, biting my lip tightly, too scared to make a sound. My mother wept constantly, her eyes hollow like a deep pond with no light. I thought that no matter how hard life got, as long as we stayed together, we could get through anything. Until that morning. As usual, I went to call my parents for breakfast. The door was locked from the inside; no matter how hard I knocked, no one answered. The neighbors heard the noise and rushed over, helping me pry open the door. The scene before my eyes became a nightmare I could never shake off for the rest of my life. My parents were leaning against the headboard, the wounds on their wrists still oozing faint brown blood. On the table lay a suicide note, its handwriting messy and full of guilt. They said, "Sorry to you, sorry to your grandma, this was the only way to find release." I didn't cry or scream; I just stood there, my whole body freezing. When my grandma saw that scene, her legs suddenly gave out and she collapsed to the floor. I lunged forward like mad, shouting my grandma's name. Later, the doctor said my grandma had a sudden heart attack from stress, and due to her old age, she would never be able to stand again. The house was gone, my parents were gone, and my grandma was paralyzed in bed. At fifteen, overnight, I became the only pillar my family had. But I couldn't even hold myself up. The debt collectors didn't ease up just because my parents had died. They couldn't find anything to seize for the debt, so they took their anger out on me. The first time I was hit, I clung to my grandma's wheelchair, holding it tightly in front of me to shield her. Fists landed on my back and arms, the pain making cold sweat break out all over me. I didn't dare resist; all I could do was let them vent their anger. They called me a jinx and accused my parents of being heartless. Every word felt like a knife stabbing into my heart. To buy medicine for my grandma, I carried bricks at the construction site. The heavy bricks pressed on my shoulders, leaving them red and swollen, even breaking my skin. I also washed dishes in a restaurant, my fingers soaked in grease until layers of calluses formed. But that little money wasn't nearly enough for my grandma's medical bills and basic expenses. The debt collectors still haunted me like restless ghosts. Once, they cornered me in an alley. The man leading them kicked my knee, and I collapsed to the ground with a thud. "No money to pay back? Then don't expect to have an easy life!" he snarled. The others surrounded me, punching and kicking as I curled up on the ground, my consciousness fading. I thought, if I died like this, would I finally be free? At least I wouldn't have to watch my grandma suffer anymore or be bullied by others at will.