Chapter 2: Back to the Beginning

I let out a heavy sigh and sat up on the narrow bed. Dim light spilled over me, and the bedding smelled like mildew. When I moved my feet, I kicked an empty Gatorade bottle. That’s right—this is where I grew up: a tiny storage room with moldy walls. Even though it was only my second day back, everything still felt unreal, like some weird dream I couldn’t wake up from.

The air was thick with the smell of old cardboard and something sour, like a pile of laundry left too long in the basket. My sheets clung to my skin, and every time I shifted, the metal bedframe groaned like it was about to give out. I rubbed my eyes, half-expecting to see a grown man’s hands, but all I saw were the skinny, knobby fingers of a teenager. Back in the same hellhole, like the universe hit rewind and dared me to play again.

"Jamie! Get out here and help!"

My mom’s shrill voice cut through the door. I blinked, and only then did it really hit me—I was back, right in the middle of this living nightmare.

The way she spat my name—like it was a punishment, not a gift. I could hear her slippers smacking against the linoleum, the TV blasting some trashy talk show in the background. For a second, I almost laughed. Some things never change, no matter how many times you hit reset.

"Jamie Blackwell! If you don’t come out, are you trying to get yourself killed?!"

Her voice was as sharp as ever. I slowly clenched my fists, then let them go. With this frail body, so weak from years of being half-starved, even wanting to resist was just a fantasy. In my last life, just one protest got me tied up by my parents and locked in this dark storage room. Back then, I didn’t even think about fighting back—the ideas they’d drilled into me for years were so deeply rooted that I never even noticed. Deep down, I always saw myself as Julian’s shadow, believing that only if he was doing well could I survive.

My palms itched with the urge to fight back, but my body remembered what my mind tried to forget. Hunger teaches you to keep your head down, move quiet, never ask for more than you’re given. I took a shaky breath and forced myself to stand. The floor was cold, my knees wobbled, but I made it to the door anyway.

I remember the only time I ever had a real meal after joining this family was the year I started high school. I took the entrance exam under Julian’s name and did well. My brother got into a top high school. As for me, I barely scraped into a regular one. Of course, no one cared about me. The whole family was thrilled that Julian got into a top school—even me. That day, my parents let me eat at the table for the first time, and I finally knew what it was like to eat my fill of roast beef. I nearly made myself sick.

It was a Sunday, I think—one of those rare afternoons where the sunlight actually made it through the greasy kitchen window. Mom carved up the roast like she was feeding a king, stacking Julian’s plate high while I waited for scraps. But that night, she slid a plate in front of me, too. I ate so fast I barely tasted it, afraid someone would yank it away. For a few minutes, I felt almost human. Almost.

I know why they treated me like this. In my last life, I once overheard my parents talking. I still remember my dad’s tone—cold, mechanical, ruthless.

"Dogs are the most loyal, and the easiest to please. Give them a treat and they’ll forget every bad thing you’ve done."

"We’re not raising a person—people are complicated and unpredictable."

"Raise a dog, and that dog will obey you for life."

My mom laughed at that. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t dare listen any further.

Their voices drifted through the thin walls, sharp as the wind sneaking in through the cracks. I remember crouching in the hallway, knees hugged to my chest, wishing I could vanish. I never told a soul what I heard. Some things are too heavy to share, even with yourself.

Honestly, being a dog wasn’t so bad. At least at home, as a dog, I could eat a full meal—even if it was just leftovers. That was still better than being a stray.

I’d seen stray dogs—wandering the streets, bullied, hungry, sleeping with one eye open. Once, I saw a stray curled up by the curb, and when the sun came up the next day, it never woke up again. In that sense, I was lucky—at least I got to see another sunrise.

I used to watch the strays through the schoolyard fence, their ribs showing, tails tucked. Sometimes I’d sneak them scraps from my lunch, if I had any. I figured we understood each other—just trying to survive another day. At least I had a roof, even if it leaked. At least I had a name, even if it wasn’t really mine.

"Bang!"

"I called you so many times and you didn’t hear! Are you deaf or just asking for trouble?!"

My mom kicked the storage room door open. My thoughts shattered, and I flinched out of habit. Even after coming back, that bone-deep fear still made me react the same way. Even with a second chance, it’s hard to change everything—especially for someone like me who never had anything.

Her face twisted with annoyance, arms crossed tight over her chest. She looked at me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out. Old habits die hard, I guess. I ducked my head and mumbled an apology, hoping she’d lose interest fast.

"Sorry, I’ll come out right now."