At Six, I Became My Family's ATM
Agatha Christie · Completed · 8.0k Words
Introduction
At six, I could predict any sports outcome. My parents turned me into their money-printing machine—basement prison, electric torture, carved punishments for every mistake. They called me "princess" while salting my wounds.
When my gift earned them tens of millions, they showered me with the most expensive toys. When my predictions cost them fortunes, they didn't hesitate to sell me to a criminal syndicate as collateral.
Standing on the edge of that thirty-second floor, watching my deranged father reach out with those words: "It's all because of you, you worthless piece of trash!"
As I plummeted through the air, I swore an oath—if there's a next life, I'll make them pay.
Chapter 1
Iris's POV
The chains had cut into my wrists.
This was my third month in hell.
Twelve broken TVs buzzed simultaneously in the basement - ESPN, Fox Sports, NBC Sports voices tangled into noise.
The stench of rotting food drifted from the corner storage room. That was my "punishment chamber."
"Listen up, you little freak." Dad Jimmy gripped the cattle prod, blue electricity crackling. "Three NBA games tonight. Get them ALL right, or you'll taste this again."
I huddled in the freezing chair, my six-year-old body trembling violently with fear. Ever since they discovered I could predict game results, this basement became my hell.
"I'll try my best, Daddy. I promise I'll be good." My voice barely audible.
"Try?" He sneered. "You don't TRY, you little bitch! You MUST get them right! Every generation of Millers has had the gift, and you sure as hell won't disgrace me!"
Mom Linda sprawled lazily on the couch, eyes fixed on the betting odds flashing across the screen. "Sweetheart, Mommy bought you a cheeseburger. It's in the fridge. Be a good girl tonight and you can have it."
Cheeseburger. My stomach clenched painfully with hunger. Yesterday they'd only given me one cup of murky tap water all day.
"Viktor's waiting for my call." Dad waved his phone. "Ten grand riding on this. You better not screw up, or else..."
He didn't finish, but I knew what came next.
The first game started: Knicks versus Bulls.
I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to focus. Blurry images began forming in my mind... the Knicks making consecutive turnovers in the final moments... the Bulls' counterattack...
"Bulls win, 101 to 97."
Dad immediately dialed. "Viktor, it's Jimmy. First game, Bulls by 4. Put it all on them."
Please God, let me be right...
After forty agonizing minutes, the final score flashed on screen: Bulls 104, Knicks 99.
I was wrong. Off by two points.
No... please no...
"You USELESS piece of garbage!"
"Wait, Daddy! Next time I'll—"
The cattle prod slammed into my left arm.
"AHHHH—! Daddy, I'm sorry! I'M REALLY SORRY!" The tearing electrical pain made me scream, my body convulsing like it was being ripped apart.
"Jimmy, STOP!" Mom immediately shouted anxiously. "Don't break her completely. We still have two more games."
She wasn't worried about my pain - she was worried about her money.
I collapsed in the chair, tears and snot mixing together.
Why... why do I have this curse of an ability?
Second game: Yankees versus Red Sox.
"One more chance." Dad set down the cattle prod, but Mom picked up a small knife. "Mess up again and..."
I saw that blade and my whole body shook.
Focus... I have to focus... or I'll be punished again...
Images flashed through my mind again: Yankees' seventh-inning explosion, three consecutive home runs...
"Yankees win, 7 to 4."
"That's my smart girl!" Dad's eyes lit up. "Viktor, second game, Yankees by 3!"
The game played out intensely. The seventh inning, Yankees did start their rally. But in the ninth, the Red Sox suddenly exploded with consecutive scores.
Final score locked in: Red Sox 8, Yankees 6.
Wrong again. Completely wrong.
"No no no! Mommy, I really tried!" Tears poured out frantically. "I don't want to be wrong anymore!"
"Baby," Mom knelt in front of me, voice gentle, "Mommy loves you, but you need to remember this lesson."
"Mommy don't do this, I'll get it right next time! Please believe me!"
The knife's tip pierced my right arm, the cold metal slicing through skin as blood immediately gushed out. She carved into my arm stroke by stroke: Yankees 7:4.
"AHHHH—! Mommy please stop! It hurts too much! I can't take it!" My screams echoed through the basement.
"Remember this pain, and you won't forget next time." Her voice remained gentle. "Pain is the best teacher."
Blood dripped onto the floor, forming dark red stains.
I bit down hard, desperately holding back screams. The more I screamed, the longer they tortured me.
"Last game," Dad picked up the cattle prod again. "Lakers versus Warriors. If you're wrong again..."
He didn't finish, but I knew what came next. I couldn't be wrong again.
Focus... focus... with every ounce of strength I have...
This time, the images in my mind were crystal clear: LeBron's clutch three-pointer, Curry's fatal mistake in the final moments, the Lakers' stunning comeback in the last thirty seconds...
"Lakers win." I opened my eyes, using all my remaining strength to look at them. "112 to 108. They'll score seven straight in the last thirty seconds."
Dad hesitated for a second. "You absolutely sure?"
"I'm sure." I gritted my teeth. "Lakers comeback in the final minute. I'd bet my life on it."
"Viktor, third game, Lakers by 4, put ALL our money on it!"
Two and a half hours of agonizing wait.
The Lakers mounted their frantic final comeback, LeBron hitting consecutive threes.
Final score: Lakers 112, Warriors 108.
Dad and Mom looked at each other, then both erupted in hysterical laughter.
"My GENIUS! My little money tree!" Dad hugged me tight, completely forgetting about the still-bleeding wound on my arm. "I KNEW it! Miller blood never disappoints!"
"Baby, Mommy's going to heat up your cheeseburger right now!" Mom clapped excitedly. "Tonight you can sleep in a real bed upstairs!"
They danced around like it was Christmas, completely forgetting what they'd just done. As if those bloody wounds didn't exist.
I looked down at the carving on my arm, blood still slowly seeping out.
Yankees 7:4 - not just a wrong score, this was the beginning of my nightmare.
"Mommy and Daddy are going to get RICH because of you!" Their voices echoed through the basement like demons from the abyss.
"You're our little money machine, sweetheart!" Mom kissed my forehead. "Tomorrow there are even BIGGER games!"
Bigger bets. More pain.
I closed my eyes in agony, tears streaming down my face.
God, somebody please save me?
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