Chapter 1I didn't stop Dad from forcing that "holy water" down Mom's throat.
Grandma stood there muttering, saying Mom was possessed and needed some concoction from the woods.
I knew better. That black liquid wasn't holy—it was poison from rotting roots.
In my past life, they poisoned her half-dead, then buried her alive.
This time, I just watched.
When Dad turned away, I pulled out a stolen packet and dumped the powder into his water jug.
Dad, if someone has to die...
It might as well be YOU.
---
That packet was filled with nightshade berry powder I'd been hoarding for months.
The berries are deep purple and look like harmless wild fruit. The local kids pick them when they're starving, but they don't realize that too many will cause splitting headaches, gut-wrenching cramps, and violent diarrhea.
In my last life, I was so hungry I wolfed down a handful and ended up thrashing on my cot in agony.
Dad, pissed off by the noise, kicked me onto the floor and called me a useless, ungrateful brat.
In this life, the poison is my equalizer.
Dad came in from the fields parched. He grabbed a ladle and downed the water in huge gulps.
I huddled by the doorstep, watching his Adam's apple bob while I counted.
One. Two. Three.
Sure enough, by midnight, he was clutching his stomach and howling like a dying animal.
He scrambled out to the outhouse and didn't come back.
Grandma woke up and went out with a kerosene lamp. Soon, the yard was filled with her screeching and a vile stench.
"Good Lord! What vengeful spirit is hexing this house now?!"
Her voice was shrill and panicked.
Mom woke up too. In the darkness, I could feel her body go rigid.
It wasn't worry, it was the raw, instinctive hyper-vigilance of a caged animal.
To her, when her abuser acted weird, it usually meant a shitstorm was coming.
I crawled to the bedside. I could feel her burning fever and those shuddering breaths.
I took her hand. She flinched, but once she realized it was me, she eased up.
I looked her in the eyes and gave a slow, heavy nod.
Don't be scared, Mom.
I'm getting you out of here this time.
With the two "bosses" of the house down for the count—one sick from the swamp juice and the other by the nightshade—I had my window.
Under the guise of getting Mom a drink, I slipped into the kitchen and swiped a box of matches from the back of the cupboard.
While Grandma was frantically tending to Dad, I slipped out the front door.
The town was tiny, with only one dirt road leading to civilization.
There was a shabby general store at the edge of town, the only shop for miles.
I remembered from my past life, an outsider—a kind man—had bought me a piece of candy right here.
It was the only bit of sweetness I ever knew in that miserable life.
Now, the wooden door was ajar, and the owner was passed out on the counter.
I crept in silent as a cat.
The shelves were caked in dust, but I spotted a dark green notebook immediately—the exact one I'd pined for in my last life.
Next to it was a tiny stub of a pencil.
I strained on my tiptoes until I finally reached them.
I tucked them into my shirt, but I wasn't done. I scanned the shelves.
Soon, I found the prize: a pack of red crayons.
In my past life, the cops finally showed up after Mom was already in the ground.
But the locals all covered for each other, claiming she'd died of natural causes. With zero evidence, the cops had to walk away.
This time, I'm giving them evidence they can't ignore.
Chapter 2
I hid my loot in a hole under the floorboards—a space I shared with the vermin.
For the next two days, Dad was so wrecked from vomiting that he couldn't even crawl out of bed.
Grandma spent her days grumbling and brewing foul-smelling herbal crap, making the whole house reek.
Mom's fever refused to break. She was delirious, constantly whispering one name.
"Matt."
I knew that was her fiancé.
She told me once she was this close to getting married before she was kidnapped and trafficked.
That man, Matt, had to be out there somewhere, searching like a madman.
This only made me more hell-bent on getting the word out.
In the dead of night, I quietly pulled the notebook from its hiding place.
I couldn't light the lamp, the glow would give me away.
I spread the notebook on the floor, using the faint moonlight trickling through the window.
I'm illiterate.
No one taught me then, and I never had a chance in this hellhole.
But I can draw.
Using that tiny pencil stub, I sketched a map of our town.
Jagged lines for every narrow dirt path.
Misshapen squares for every single house.
Once the layout was done, I took a shaky breath.
Then, I pulled out the red crayons.
I uncapped one and, using a color like fresh blood, drew a tiny figure lying flat over the square that was my home.
Then, I moved to our neighbor, Mrs. Miller's place.
I remembered it clearly: The Millers had a "bought" girl too. She kept trying to bolt, so they snapped her legs and locked her in the storm cellar.
I'd peeked through the vent once, she was lying on the straw like a heap of discarded rags.
Under Mrs. Miller's square, I drew a staircase leading underground to a locked, sobbing woman.
Next was Mr. Davis's place.
His wife had it even worse. Because she couldn't pop out a son, they treated her like livestock and locked her in the hog pen.
She ate and slept with the pigs every day.
Beside Mr. Davis's square, I drew a pigsty with a woman lying next to a hog.
The cripple at the west end, the mute at the east end...
Guided by my past-life memories, I drew house after house.
With every stroke, the desperate screams and vacant stares replayed like a horror movie in my head.
This whole town is rotten to the core.
My hands were shaking—not from the cold, but from sheer rage and terror.
By the time I made the last mark, the page was covered in horrifying red symbols.
It was a visual distress signal, drawn by a girl who couldn't speak.
I turned to a new page.
I drew a woman in a blue dress—the clothes Mom was wearing the day she was snatched. I'd seen the photo.
Beside her was a man in a suit. Matt.
I tried my best to make them look beautiful and happy.
At the bottom, I used the pencil to painstakingly copy the letters I'd seen on a discarded cigarette pack.
"Summer Willow."
That was Mom's real name.
Chapter 3
Once it was all done, I tucked the notebook away with care, waiting for one specific person to show up.
This town was like a fortress—airtight, impenetrable, and completely cut off from the rest of civilization.
But even a fortress needs to trade with the outside for the basics: salt, fabric, and essential supplies.
Old Miller, the traveling merchant, was the only outsider allowed into this iron cage.
On the 15th of every month, he'd drive his wagon into the hills to trade cheap city goods for the raw materials the townspeople gathered.
The town elders, led by the Sheriff, tolerated him only because he'd been coming for over a decade, he was greedy, cowardly, and seemed completely harmless.
Every time he arrived, the trade happened at the clearing by the old oak tree, under the watchful eyes of the Sheriff and a few local thugs. He wasn't allowed a single step inside the town limits.
The townsfolk saw him as a fool they could walk all over, but they had no idea he was my only hope.
In my last life, when I was fading fast, he was the one who slipped me a piece of butterscotch when no one was looking.
That tiny spark of kindness gave me the guts to bet everything on him this time around.
My dad started to recover. He was still weak, but he could walk again. He looked at Mom, who was fading fast, with a growing, murderous glint in his eyes.
"This jinx... nothing but bad luck since she got here," he spat. "Keeping her around is a total waste of space."
He spat on the ground and turned to Grandma. "Mom, get things ready. We'll pick a time and put her in the ground. Maybe it'll clear the air and bring some good luck back to this house."
Grandma's cloudy eyes lit up as she nodded eagerly. "Bout time. She's just eating through our rations anyway."
I hid behind the door, my small frame shaking with a rage I couldn't control as I listened to them.
Bring good luck?
You're going to sacrifice a living soul to "clear the air" for your filthy lives?
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, forcing myself to stay calm.
I couldn't snap. I couldn't let them see I was onto them.
They set the time for the day after tomorrow—the 15th.
They'd already started picking a spot in the backwoods to dig the hole.
Time was running out.
The night of the 14th, I didn't sleep a wink.
I clutched that notebook, filled with the town's darkest secrets, tightly against my chest.
It was thin, but it felt heavy enough to crush the lungs right out of me.
The next morning, I heard the familiar sound of his bell.
Ding-a-ling.
Miller was here!
My heart hammered against my ribs, my palms slick with cold sweat.
This was it. All or nothing.
I tucked the notebook away and slipped out, pretending to play in the dirt near the town entrance.
Sure enough, Miller's wagon was parked under the oak tree. The Sheriff and his men were watching him like hawks, counting the pelts and herbs for trade.
The townsfolk crowded around, bickering over bags of salt and boxes of matches.
This was my only window.
I kept my head down, using my peripheral vision to lock onto a bulging burlap sack on the back of his wagon.
That was his personal bag—filled with his spare clothes and rations.
Like a startled rabbit, I crept slowly toward the wagon.
My heart was drumming so loud I thought they'd hear it. The world went silent, except for the sound of my own shallow breathing.
Close. Closer.
My hands were shaking as I lifted a corner of the sack and shoved the notebook deep inside.
The second it was in, I bolted, ducking behind a woodpile to watch, my nerves on edge.
Please, God, don't let them see.
Miller and the Sheriff settled on a price and started loading the wagon.
Miller casually patted his burlap sack and shoved it further in.
My heart leaped into my throat.
Thank God, he didn't open it.
With the wagon loaded, Miller gave a shout to his mule, ready to head out.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
The Sheriff's son, a brat around eight years old, pointed a finger at me and screamed, "Dad! I saw the mute girl shove something in that man's bag!"
