His Award, My Revenge: The Day I Accepted the Honor for My Father

Whap!

The wooden ruler slammed down hard on my bleeding knuckles, instantly blooming into a fresh flower of blood.

Ten years. It had been exactly ten years since I first picked up a paintbrush at age four.

"Keep painting!" My father Vincent Collins's voice cut through the dim basement like a bone-chilling wind. "We don't have the luxury of failure! Rich kids rely on their parents' money and connections—we can only rely on perfection! We can't waste a single opportunity!"

I still remember the beginning, when father would guide me gently. He had just graduated from art school then, full of idealistic dreams about making it in New York. He said I had talent, that my paintings gave him hope.

But reality hit him hard, and fast.

Rejection after rejection, exhibition after exhibition ignored, opportunity after opportunity stolen by those "connected" artists. Father began to change. He stopped painting altogether and turned all his attention to me.

"Canvas, you know what?" That was when I was eight, the first time he hit my hand with the wooden ruler. "Those rich kids don't need to try hard to get into the best art schools. But we can't do that. We have to be a hundred times, a thousand times better than them!"

From that day on, gentle guidance became harsh training, and harsh training became violent torture.

I gritted my teeth and gripped the paintbrush again with my trembling right hand. Blood dripped from my fingertips onto the pristine white canvas, leaving shocking red spots.

I could no longer remember what the joy of painting felt like.

The basement "studio" was wallpapered with photocopied works by Van Gogh and Picasso, along with motivational slogans father had written by hand: "Genius comes from hard work!" "Poverty is no excuse!" "Surpass those rich kids!" Each word felt like a silent accusation against me.

These slogans had been posted three years ago, when father saw a rich kid win an award that should have been mine. He came home and locked me down here for an entire week, giving me only bread and water.

"Look at what you've painted!" Father snatched the brush from my hand and roared at the lines on the canvas. "What kind of garbage is this? What will those art school professors think of you? Think of us?"

I remembered when I was eleven, I had tried to tell a teacher at school. But father found out quickly. That night, he tore up all my paintings and forced me to piece them back together with the fragments, all through till dawn.

"Never do anything that stupid again," he had said coldly as he watched me reassemble the pieces. "People outside won't understand what we're doing. They'll only destroy your future and turn you into the same mediocre waste as them. Only I truly care about your future, Canvas. Remember this lesson."

Tears mixed with blood, blurring my vision. I wanted to speak, to fight back, but my throat felt stuffed with cotton—I couldn't utter a single word.

"Start over!"

Another strike of the ruler, this time hitting my shoulder.

I bit down hard and continued painting, stroke by stroke, each one trembling. Father stood behind me, monitoring my every movement. The air was so thick it was suffocating.

Three hours later, an even more terrifying sound filled the studio—the creaking of rope against chair.

This was a new punishment method father had invented when I turned twelve. He said my posture wasn't perfect enough and would affect the quality of my painting.

I was tied tightly to a wooden chair, my spine pressed against a cold wooden board. This was father's latest invention: a "posture corrector" to ensure I maintained "perfect" posture while painting.

"You painted it wrong." Father picked up a sewing needle and waved it in front of my eyes. "Pain teaches fingers to remember the right feeling! Van Gogh also created through suffering!"

The sewing needle was a recent addition. Father said ordinary punishment could no longer make me "improve"—he needed more precise, more effective methods.

"No... please don't..." I finally found my voice, but it sounded more like the dying cry of an animal.

Stab!

The sewing needle pierced precisely into my middle fingertip.

A scream tore from my throat, shattering the basement's silence, but I quickly suppressed it into a low whimper. I had learned not to cry out loud—that would only bring harsher punishment.

"Feel this pain!" Father's eyes gleamed with sick excitement. "This is the price of genius! Those rich kids will never experience this kind of tempering, so they'll never be able to surpass you!"

Sharp pain shot through my stomach—I hadn't eaten a proper meal in three days. Hunger training had started last year, when father read in an artist's biography that hunger could spark creative inspiration.

The clear water in my cup refracted eerie light under the lamp—it was my only "nutrition source."

Ten years. Ten years of training, ten years of pain, ten years of hope and despair. I thought there would be an end. I thought someday father would be satisfied. I thought if I just tried hard enough, everything would get better.

But I was wrong.

No matter how well I painted, no matter how many awards I won, father could always find new dissatisfaction, new reasons to continue this hellish training.

This would never end.

Never.

At midnight, the studio finally fell into deadly silence.

I dragged my exhausted body and stumbled toward the bedroom on the second floor. Passing through the living room, I saw mother Rose curled up in a corner of the sofa, tears filling her eyes.

Our eyes met. Mother opened her mouth as if to say something, but finally just bowed her head deeply.

Even mom couldn't save me.

Mom was a victim too. I had seen father hit her, seen her secretly crying in the bathroom, seen her try to stop father only to be scared away by a single look. We were all sacrifices to father's insane dream.

Back in my room, I trembled as I opened my backpack and took out a sharp art knife from my art supplies. I had secretly hidden it during art class today—father never allowed me to bring these "dangerous objects" home.

The blade gleamed in the moonlight, as cold as father's eyes.

I used to think he was worried about me getting hurt. Now I understood—he was just afraid his tool would break before completing his dream. After all, a dead genius was worthless to him.

I walked to the mirror and looked at the girl with tear-stained face and hollow eyes.

At fourteen, I looked as worn out as someone thirty. My body was covered in wounds, both new and old. My mind was completely shattered too—I had nightmares every night, dreaming of endless training and pain.

Was this my life? From four to fourteen, from fourteen to twenty-four, then to thirty-four? Spending my entire life in this kind of suffering?

I looked at the art knife in my hand. The blade was very sharp—just one cut and I could...

No. I didn't want to continue like this anymore.

I carefully put the art knife back in the deepest part of my backpack and climbed into bed.

I remembered how I looked when I first picked up a paintbrush at age four, when I still thought painting was the most joyful thing in the world. If that innocent little girl knew what was waiting for her, would she still smile so happily?

Now I understood that some pain never ends.

Unless... unless I end it myself.