Real Heir Only Wants to Die This Time Chapter 2

Looking at my family's grim faces, I felt completely exhausted. I had no idea what it would take to make them happy.

When Isaac lost his dog, he put a collar around my neck, made me eat dog food, and forced me to sleep in a doghouse, turning me into his new plaything.

When he went camping with his friends, he locked me tight inside a sealed sleeping bag and kicked me down the hillside.

My head and body slammed into the sharp rocks. The pain was so intense that I eventually went numb and could barely breathe.

Looking down at my twisted, broken body, he just curled his lip in contempt.

"I guess the quality of this sleeping bag is pretty terrible," he said. "I'll definitely leave a bad review! Good thing you tested it out for me."

This time around, I didn't resist his torture anymore. I didn't know why Mom, Dad, and Rebecca were still upset with me.

After the doctor finished examining me, Mom came in with a cup of warm milk and sat beside my bed.

She looked at me with a complicated expression. "Carl, tell me. Do you... really hate this family?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Then why did you do those things? Why do you keep hurting yourself?" Mom pressed.

I held the cup of warm milk and took small sips before answering seriously, "I just wanted everyone to be happy."

Mom's eyes instantly welled up with tears. "You're my son. You don't have to try to please anyone."

I set the cup down and looked up at her. "But ever since I came back, Isaac hasn't been happy, and neither has Rebecca. Mom, was finding me a mistake?"

Mom was stunned for a moment. She pulled me into a tight embrace and comforted me. "No, Carl. How could it be a mistake? You're my precious son."

Her hug was warm, yet it reminded me of one of my previous lives.

Back then, Isaac had slashed his own hand with a knife and cried as he collapsed into Mom's arms.

She locked me in the pitch-black storage room and let Isaac turn on the gas valve, forcing me to breathe in the fumes until I learned my lesson and stopped "hurting" my brother.

At that time, I didn't understand what I had done wrong. I just wanted to survive and be loved by everyone. Yet now that I only sought death, Mom was calling me her precious child.

The next day, the family held a meeting.

Isaac had cried all night, leaving his eyes swollen. "I really didn't push him," he sobbed. "I was just… scared. I was scared that once he came back, you wouldn't want me anymore."

Rebecca felt sorry for him and immediately defended him. "Mom, Isaac didn't mean it. He's just insecure. Look at Carl. He's only been back for a few days, and he's already turned the entire house upside down!"

She pointed at me with pure disgust. "There's something seriously wrong with him!"

Dad rubbed his temples, letting out a helpless sigh. "We can't go on like this. Let's find a psychiatrist to get Carl some help."

On the day of the appointment, I was remarkably cooperative, answering every question the psychiatrist asked.

"Why do you keep wanting to die?"

Sitting on the soft sofa, I smiled and replied, "Because it's the easiest way to make all the problems go away."

The psychiatrist adjusted his glasses and tried to reason with me. "Have you ever considered that if you die, the people who love you will be heartbroken?"

I blinked, asking out of genuine curiosity, "Love me? Do you mean like the workers at the orphanage, who claimed they loved me while watching the other kids beat me up and doing nothing?

"Or like the human traffickers, who called me their good boy while locking me in a dog cage?

"Or… like my sister, who warns me not to upset her precious brother but only pulls me out of the pool right when I'm about to drown?"

I leaned closer to the psychiatrist and whispered, "Doctor, they don't love me. They're just afraid that if I die in their house, it'll bring them trouble. They think I'm sick and need treatment. But I'm not sick. I'm just… giving them what they want.

"I do whatever it takes to make them happy. If they want me to die, I'll just die. Is that still not good enough?"

The psychiatrist's hand froze in midair, and his face drained of all color.