A Second Seventeen

A sharp pain in my stomach jolts me awake from the haze. I suddenly sat up, cold sweat soaking through my thin pajamas. I looked around—the chipped walls, the peeling desk, and on it, an open second-year high school math workbook. This isn't the dark rented room where I lived before I died. Trembling, I reached out to touch my abdomen. Flat, warm—no longer the constant stabbing pain of late-stage stomach cancer. The calendar on the wall clearly displayed June 15, 2019. I've been reborn, back at seventeen—the day Father forced me to drop out and work in a factory. Memories surged like a tide, carrying the rusty smell of blood. In my previous life, it was from this day that I began walking step by step into the trap woven by my father and grandmother. They said my stepmother, Reagan Lopez, was ruthless, withholding my tuition fees. They said the money my mother left behind had long been squandered by Reagan Lopez. They said that for girls, studying was useless; it was better to start earning early to save a bride price for my younger brother. I believed them. So I joined villagers working in an electronics factory, labored fourteen hours every day; parts on the assembly line flashed before my eyes, and the mechanical repetition numbed my fingers. The air in the workshop was thick with the stifling smell of plastic and sweat, suffocating and hard to breathe. Every penny I earned was handed over to Father without keeping a single cent; the smile on his face when taking the money now feels only greedy. In the late stages of stomach cancer, I lay in the rented room waiting to die, the mold patches on the ceiling like a grotesque face. There wasn't even anyone to pour me water; my throat was so dry it felt like it was about to split, and every breath pierced with sharp pain. In the end, it was Reagan Lopez who claimed the body. She wore a black trench coat, her eyes swollen and red, trembling as she held me close. "Maggie, I'm sorry. I failed to protect you." Her voice was hoarse, heavy with endless regret. At the time, I sneered coldly inside, hearing nothing but empty falsehood. But during the seven days after my death, I followed her like a restless ghost and finally uncovered the whole truth. Father took the money I had painstakingly saved and rented an apartment in a nearby city to support the woman he kept and their illegitimate child. That woman dressed ostentatiously, spending my hard-earned money on designer bags, while her child wore brand-new sneakers, smiling innocently. Grandmother wept and pleaded in front of relatives and neighbors, tears and mucus streaming down her face, accusing Reagan Lopez of abusing her stepdaughter, withholding food, forcing me to work, and ultimately driving me to death. The relatives, ignorant of the truth, pointed fingers at Reagan Lopez, their spittle nearly drowning her. Online public opinion wrapped around Reagan Lopez like a venomous serpent; her photos were maliciously altered into obscene images, she was fired from her job, and people confronted and insulted her on the streets. When she went to the supermarket, the cashiers looked at her with contempt, deliberately throwing her change on the floor. Three months later, she jumped from the top floor of the hospital. The wind was fierce that day, tearing at the edges of her clothes like a bird with broken wings. My father and grandmother used the donations from netizens to build a new house in our hometown, the red brick walls glaring harshly in the sunlight. They told everyone that Reagan Lopez was a curse who brought about my death, and now she is facing her own retribution. Thinking this, I bit down hard on my lip, the metallic taste of blood spreading through my mouth. The pain of teeth digging into flesh pales against the fierce hatred burning in my heart. This time, I will never let tragedy repeat itself.