Chapter 1: Rewind and Betrayal

After getting laid off from the electronics plant, I dove headfirst into the world of livestreaming.

My hands still carried the faint smell of solder and burnt plastic, but I didn’t care. Out in the wilds of the internet, I found an audience hungry for something real, and soon, my bank account numbers climbed faster than the old time clocks at work ever did.

The cash rolled in, and I wasted no time buying my family a car and a house.

It was surreal, walking my parents through that model home—Mom tracing her fingers along the kitchen counter, Dad adjusting the driver’s seat in a brand-new Ford. For once, I felt like I was the one steering the story—mine and theirs.

But my parents couldn’t tune out the gossip from our relatives, who claimed I’d lost all sense.

In small-town Ohio, it’s not what you do, it’s what people say that lingers. Relatives whispered at barbecues and church potlucks—cousins crowded around paper plates stacked with ribs and potato salad, eyes flicking over to me between bites—painting me as a dropout who played with gadgets instead of working a real job.

Next thing I knew, they forced me into some sketchy rehab center to "cure my internet addiction."

I never thought my own folks would fall for the panic about screens and online scams, but they did—hook, line, and sinker. The rehab was more like a rundown summer camp, always reeking of antiseptic and broken dreams.

When I finally got out, my following was gone, and I was left with crippling depression. In the end, I washed down a handful of sleeping pills, alone.

Even with sunlight pouring through my window, it felt like I was trapped at the bottom of a well. Nights bled into days, the world spinning on without me. That final handful of pills tasted like surrender and regret.

They said my death wasn’t worth pity, then turned around and burned through every cent I’d earned.

Not even a proper obituary. Just a blip in the paper, then fights over who got the car, who’d take the mortgage, which cousin deserved what. All that talk about family—it vanished the minute the will came out.

Suddenly, I was back at the moment when my relatives first started sniffing around about my livestreaming money.

I was slumped in the same old sticky vinyl kitchen chair, sunlight cutting through faded curtains. The fridge hummed, the wall clock ticked, and somewhere a TV played a game show rerun—every sense screaming déjà vu, like the universe had hit rewind just as I hit bottom. My heart thudded in my chest, the moment stretching and slowing, every detail sharper than before.

But this time, I swore I’d never let anyone control me again.

A promise burned deep in my gut. Never again. If this was my second shot, I’d play by my own rules.

"So, Marcus, you really making bank just goofing off online?"

The words drifted through my half-dream, and I recognized Uncle Dave’s drawl before I even looked up. He always sounded half-amused, half-suspicious—like he was waiting for me to slip up.

"Hey, kid, your uncle’s talking to you!" Dad barked, and when I didn’t answer, he kicked the back of my chair. "You sit on that damn computer all day, talking about easy money—let’s see some of it then!"

His boot made the chair lurch, pain shooting up my tailbone. Dad’s face was red, his eyes locked on me, knuckles white on the chair back, jaw twitching like he was holding back more than words.

The pain snapped me back to reality. Memory and fear hit me like cold water. I gripped the table, fighting to steady my breath. Everything was the same: the peeling wallpaper, chipped mug by the sink, that damp smell from the leaky pipes. I was right back at the beginning.

Déjà vu crashed over me, thick and choking. Aunt Linda flashed her sly grin, nudging her phone closer—ready to check her Venmo the second I said the magic word: money.

It was Uncle Dave who’d asked, just like before. It’s funny how a simple question could bulldoze every wall you’d spent years building.

Trying to prove livestreaming was real money—and that I was better than my college-bound brother, Caleb—I told them everything. I spilled how I’d caught the wave and made a killing online.

Looking back, I can’t believe how desperate I was for their approval—to see Dad’s eyes light up, to finally silence the whispers about me being a dropout. I laid everything bare, like it could buy me a seat at the grown-ups’ table.

Right there, I Venmoed $7,000 to each relative.

I remember the glow from my phone screen on their eager faces. Payment notifications chimed like victory, like I’d finally made it.

I sent $40,000 each to my parents and to Caleb.

The collective gasp was like we’d all won the lottery. I was passing out golden tickets—except I was the only one who’d have to keep paying the price.

Everyone stared at their phones, greedy smiles spreading, and I floated in their fake praise.

They crowded around, slapping me on the back, their smiles so wide it almost looked real. For a moment, I let myself believe I belonged.

"Who would’ve thought Marcus—the one who didn’t get into college—would turn out so successful!"

Aunt Linda’s voice dripped with sugar, but her eyes burned with envy. I could almost hear her plotting how she’d brag at church.

"Marcus is really something. I’ll tell my son to follow your example," Uncle Dave snorted, elbowing his kid, who just rolled his eyes and kept scrolling TikTok.

"Even the oldest, who everyone thought was hopeless, made something of himself."

The word ‘hopeless’ hit like a punch, even when they tried to dress it up as praise.

For once, Dad puffed up his chest and gave me a thumbs-up. "Thinking of your family as soon as you make money—now that’s my son."

He looked proud to call me his boy. For a split second, I’d have done anything for that look.

Later, I spent even more of my earnings on a house and car for the family.

Three bedrooms at the end of Maple Heights Lane—fresh paint, the drone of lawn mowers on weekends, a used Chevy in the driveway. I handed Mom the keys. She started crying. For a moment, it felt like I’d rewritten our story.

We went from the poorest on Maple Heights Lane to suddenly rich, envied by everyone.

Neighbors who once looked down their noses now stopped by, angling for barbecue invites and peeking at our shiny new mailbox. My parents walked taller, acting like they’d won the lottery.

But jealous relatives whispered to my parents that my money was dirty.

Rumors snaked through every gathering, every Sunday after church. Aunt Sarah claimed she’d read about "influencers" being crooks, scamming the lonely and desperate.

Soon, they claimed I had a mental disorder. A few teamed up to drag me into an internet addiction center.

They staged an intervention, all serious faces and hushed voices. I was too stunned to fight, still dizzy from the high of giving so much. I didn’t realize until too late I’d become the black sheep again—this time, for being too successful, too different.

Electric shocks tore through my already weak body. Every hair, every organ trembled.

The so-called treatment was a nightmare—bare rooms, buzzing lights, doctors barely glancing up from their clipboards. They strapped electrodes to my skin, jolting me until I bit my tongue raw. My screams bounced off concrete and vanished.

Every day was hell.

The hours crawled. I counted ceiling tiles, watched shadows creep, wondered if anyone out there even cared.

Sometimes, they threw me into a pitch-black solitary room, darkness pressing in until I lost track of time.

I’d grope the walls, heart pounding, searching for a corner to curl up in. The darkness was suffocating.

I screamed and howled in agony, but all I got was even more brutal beatings.

It was like my pain just made them angrier. I learned to keep quiet, swallow my screams.

No matter how much my body hurt, it couldn’t compare to the pain in my heart.

The physical torture faded compared to the betrayal. My own family’s faces haunted my dreams—how could they do this to me?

Because it was my own family who sent me into this endless hell.

That knowledge twisted deeper than any scar. They say family’s everything, but right then, it felt like family was just another chain.

I secretly called my mom, begging her to ask Dad to bring me home.

I hid under scratchy blankets, whispering into a smuggled cell phone, praying she’d listen. The static on the line was the only warmth I had.

But Mom said, "Son, your dad and I are doing this for your own good. Who told you to get addicted to the internet and start having delusions?"

Her voice was cool, almost bored, like she was reading from a script. Nothing I said mattered.

I protested, "Mom, that’s all lies! Didn’t I give all my money to support the family?"

My chest ached. I wanted to shout: Without me, you’d still be scraping by in that drafty old house!

"Support the family? Who knows where your money came from?" Dad roared over the phone. "All your relatives watched you grow up. Sending you in is for your own good!"

It wasn’t just anger—it was disappointment and a pride I could never win.

Before I could say more, staff grabbed me, twisted my arm, and kicked me to the ground.

My phone skidded across the tile, out of reach. I barely saw the orderly’s face before his boot connected with my ribs.

Kneeling on the cold tile, I begged, "Please, I was wrong, let me go home!"

The words spilled out, raw and desperate. My breath fogged the floor, my knees bruised against the linoleum.

Seeing me like that only made them punish me harder.

My cries made them sneer, as if my pain was proof I deserved it.

Even stronger electric currents stabbed through my insides.

Every jolt left my muscles twitching, my mind splintering. The world shrank to pain.

Let it end, I thought. I can’t take this anymore.

The thought became a chant, my only prayer. Please—just let me go.

My body withered, day by day, turning to skin and bones.

I could see my ribs in the mirror, cheeks hollowing. Each day, the boy in the glass looked less like me and more like a ghost.

A year later, my parents finally showed some rare kindness and picked me up. But I was hollowed out, wrecked by depression, hiding in my room every day, terrified to see anyone.

They barely looked at me, just hustled me into the car and drove home in silence. I locked my door, sleeping through the days, avoiding mirrors and sunlight.

Under Dad’s daily abuse, I finally swallowed sleeping pills and freed myself.

It wasn’t even dramatic. Just a handful of white tablets, washed down with lukewarm water. The pain faded, and then—nothing.

As a ghost, I watched helplessly as these greedy relatives burned through every cent I’d earned.

I hovered in the corners of rooms I’d once known, watching them fight over my things. My picture on the mantel collected dust, my name faded from their lips.

Refusing to be their meal ticket again, I swore: if I had another chance, I’d never make the same mistakes.

No more sacrificing myself for people who’d only ever seen me as a bank account.

As their laughter echoed in the kitchen, I felt a chill run through me. I was the golden goose—nothing more. And this time, I knew exactly where that road ended.