Chapter 2: Back to Day One—A Do-Over

God must’ve taken pity on me. Because when I opened my eyes again, it was the very day my parents moved in.

For a split second, I thought it was some fever dream. But there it was—the same ugly floral couch, the same smell of stale cigarettes, and the sound of my dad’s boots thudding on the floor. No mistake. I was back. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. I’d been given a second chance—no, a shot at revenge.

"You trashy woman, don’t you dare bat your eyes at him in front of me!"

His voice, loud and ugly, scraped like sandpaper against the walls. The words hit me like a slap, yanking me back to reality.

"Don’t forget, he’s your son, not that dead bastard!"

That old roar flooded my ears, making my heart jump.

It was all so painfully familiar—the same insults, the same venom. Nothing had changed. I could almost taste the bile rising in my throat. I knew exactly what came next, but this time, I wasn’t the same scared kid.

Shattered glass on the linoleum. Mom standing there, eyes full of tears, head bowed. The man was puffing on his cigarette, face twisted and still cursing. That’s when it hit me—I had a do-over.

The light caught on the shards of glass, glinting like tiny knives. Danger everywhere. My mom’s hands were shaking, her shoulders hunched as if she could fold herself out of sight. My dad took another drag, lips curled in a sneer, the room thick with smoke and old resentment. I felt the weight of the moment settle on my chest—this was it. My do-over.

My whole past life played out in flashes: Mom, driven to depression, jumping from our apartment window; my wife, losing our baby; me, stabbed and bleeding out in a rented room, dying bitter and unwilling. All of it replayed again and again.

It was like a cruel highlight reel—the thud of my mom’s body on the sidewalk, the look in my wife’s eyes as she clutched her belly, the sticky warmth of my own blood. Every regret, every missed chance, every scream I’d swallowed. No escape. The memories twisted in my gut, sharper than any knife.

Hatred surged in my chest. I clenched my fists, ready to smash them into the man’s face—I wanted to kill him.

My whole body trembled. Adrenaline buzzing in my veins. For a second, I could see myself lunging at him, see the shock in his eyes, feel the satisfaction of finally landing a blow that mattered. My knuckles itched, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I wanted him to pay. God, I wanted it more than anything.

She moved faster than I’d ever seen her, her grip surprisingly strong—stronger than I remembered. Her fingers dug into my skin, desperate and pleading. I could hear her breath hitch, smell the faint trace of her lavender hand lotion—one of the few comforts she allowed herself.

"Don’t, honey. You can’t take him on."

Her voice, low and breaking. There was fear in her eyes, but something else too—resignation, maybe, or hope that I wouldn’t end up like him.

"He’s still your father."

She looked so tired. Tears streaming down her face.

She searched my face, like she could will me to calm down. Her lips trembled, her whole body shaking. In that moment, she looked smaller than ever—like she was shrinking under the weight of his anger, and now mine too.

Seeing her so sad and in pain, my heart twisted, sharp and aching. In the end, I let my arms drop, powerless.

It felt like surrender, like all the fight drained out of me in a single breath. I hated myself for it.

"Ungrateful brat, heartless mutt! You actually want to hit your own father!" He spat the words at me, almost gleeful.

"Good thing I never fed you enough growing up. If you’d grown up strong, you’d probably beat me to death!"

He shot a sideways glare at Mom and me, baring his yellow teeth in a smug, wild grin. Disgusting.

The way he smiled made my skin crawl. He puffed out his chest, proud of the pain he’d caused.

Hatred flared up in me again, but I looked down at my scrawny arms and legs, then at his thick, burly frame, and made myself calm down.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the bones under my skin. He was built like a linebacker. All brute force.

He was too strong. Last time, when we fought, I only managed to land the first punch on his nose before he pinned me down and gutted me.

I remembered the way his nose bled, the shock on his face, and then the pain—sharp, sudden, final. Never again.

I’ve got a second chance at life—I can’t make the same mistake. Not this time.

I took a deep breath, letting the anger settle into something colder, more focused. I needed to be smart.

This time, I have to protect Mom and myself.

No more being the victim. No more letting him set the rules. Even if it kills me.

Luckily, I haven’t met my wife yet, so he can’t use her against me.

I glanced at the calendar, counting the days. Three months. That’s all I had.

But that only makes me more determined to get revenge—and to act fast. Time’s running out.

If things go like last time, I’ll meet my wife in three months. I can’t let history repeat.

I did the math in my head, remembering the exact date I’d first bumped into her at the corner coffee shop. Three months. My deadline.

I have to deal with this bastard before then. No more tragedies.

I promised myself, right then and there, that I’d do whatever it took. No matter what.

"You little bastard, don’t you glare at me with those dead eyes! Believe it or not, I’ll kill you and that trashy woman, send you both down to join that dead bastard!"

His voice cracked with rage, spit flying, eyes wild. He was always at his most dangerous when he felt threatened.

Maybe he sensed the hatred in my eyes, because his look turned even more savage—like a cornered animal.

He squared his shoulders, puffed up like a bull ready to charge. I didn’t flinch.

The "dead bastard" he mentioned was my uncle—my father’s brother. He never let me forget it.

The words stung, but I’d heard them so many times they’d almost lost their power. Almost. But not quite.

My mom and my uncle met through work and quickly fell in love, talking about marriage before long.

She used to tell me about him sometimes—how he made her laugh, how he brought her wildflowers from the roadside. For a while, she’d been happy. I could see it in the old photos she kept hidden in her dresser drawer. Her secret happiness.

But when my uncle brought Mom home, this old bastard set his sights on her. He couldn’t stand to see her happy.

He was jealous, mean, and entitled. The kind of man who saw something good and had to ruin it, just because he could. He always ruined everything.

He drugged the whole family and raped my mom.

It’s the kind of thing you don’t talk about in polite company—the family secret that festers and poisons everything it touches. It never really went away. I found out the truth by accident, overhearing whispers late at night. It made me sick then, and it still does now.

My grandparents, stuck in their old ways, forced my mom to marry him when they found out. No one cared about what she wanted.

They cared more about appearances than justice, more about keeping up the family name than protecting their daughter. She never stood a chance. In the end, Mom was just another piece to be moved around on their board.

Not long after the wedding, Mom found out she was pregnant. She was trapped.

She told me once, in a rare moment of honesty, that she didn’t own her life anymore.

My uncle was crushed. He packed his bags and went back to his city alone, sinking into depression. He died before he turned thirty. He never got over it.

I used to imagine what life would’ve been like if he’d stayed—if things had been different. But the world isn’t fair, and some people never get their happy ending. We never did.

After I was born, because my eyes looked a bit like my uncle’s, the old bastard insisted my mom had cheated with his brother and that I was their bastard kid; he made us pay for it every day.

He’d say it every time he was drunk, every time he wanted to hurt us. He never let me forget.

If he hadn’t racked up massive gambling debts while Mom was pregnant, and gotten beaten so bad he couldn’t have kids anymore, he probably would’ve killed me outright.

The only thing that saved me was his own stupidity—his greed and recklessness finally caught up with him. He was his own worst enemy.

Right now, I almost wish I really was that bastard child he claimed. At least then, killing him wouldn’t weigh on my conscience.

I stared at my reflection in the window, searching for traces of the uncle I’d never met. Maybe I wanted to believe I belonged to someone better.

After all, he cost our family four lives. I’d done the math.

In my book: my mom’s happiness, my uncle’s life, my wife’s child, and my own. Four lives.