Chapter 2: Reborn for Revenge

When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the time of Dad’s car accident. But something was different.

It was surreal—like waking up from a nightmare only to find yourself back at the beginning. For a second, I just stared, not believing it. The hospital parking lot, the flashing ambulance lights, the frantic shouts. But this time, I remembered everything. My heart hammered in my chest as I realized I’d been given another chance.

Watching the paramedics load Dad into the ambulance, I remembered everything. I had to act now. I made a snap decision: “Don’t go to the nearest hospital. Please, I’m begging you—take us to Silver Hollow Regional!”

My voice came out steadier than I felt. I didn’t let it show, though. I couldn’t. I locked eyes with the EMT, willing him to believe me. This was the moment everything could change.

The EMT looked troubled. He chewed his lip, glancing between me and Dad.

He hesitated, brow furrowed, torn between following the rules and listening to a desperate kid. I could see him thinking, weighing the risk. But I wasn’t backing down. Not this time.

“Your dad’s injuries are really serious. He needs help now.”

His words were heavy, but I shook my head. “He can make it. Please, just get us to Silver Hollow Regional as fast as you can.”

I spoke firmly, urging them again and again. “Please, you have to trust me. Silver Hollow’s the only chance. Please, please.”

The EMT stared at me, then set his jaw and signaled to the driver.

He must’ve seen something in my eyes, because after a moment, he nodded sharply. I felt a tiny spark of hope. “Do as the family says—head to Silver Hollow!”

As the ambulance sped down the highway, I slumped onto the bench, exhausted. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The adrenaline drained out of me all at once, leaving my limbs shaky. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. The roar of the sirens echoed in my ears. I just needed to hold on. Just a little longer.

Just a little more... If I’d been reborn even a moment later... I kept repeating it in my head. Don’t let this be too late. Don’t let it slip away.

The nearest hospital was closer, but the doctors there weren’t skilled enough. During surgery, Dad suffered massive blood loss due to a mistake. His blood type is rare. I remembered the panic—nobody could find a match. Even after searching the whole county’s blood banks, nothing. I flashed on that memory, the cold sweat, the fear. They tried to recruit donors, but the odds were slim—there just aren’t many people with that blood type. God, what if I was too late?

I remembered the panic in the ER—the way the staff scrambled, the way my hope faded with every minute that ticked by. Please, not again. I never wanted to relive that nightmare. Not if I could help it.

Just as all hope seemed lost, I suddenly remembered Mom. My heart jolted. She and Dad share the same blood type, and she was in town at the time, staying with her cancer-stricken high school sweetheart.

The memory flashed bright and sharp: Mom, the only possible donor, but nowhere to be found. I remembered the frustration, the helplessness, and the sudden realization that she was still nearby. I had to get her. It was my last, desperate shot—my only move left.

The reason Dad had the car accident in the first place was because Mom insisted he go to a neighboring city to buy fireworks—her first love’s dying wish. That’s what sent him out there. That’s what started everything.

It always felt so twisted—Dad risking his life to fulfill a wish for the man who’d taken Mom’s heart long ago. The irony was bitter. It made me sick.

That day, I ran countless red lights. My heart was pounding, hands shaking. I finally found Mom at a fancy steakhouse, out with her old flame. Swallowing my pride, I knelt before her and begged her to come to the hospital to save Dad.

I can still feel the sting of embarrassment, the way the cold tile bit into my knees. People stared, forks paused mid-air, but I didn’t care. My voice cracked, but I wouldn’t stop until she agreed. My pride meant nothing compared to Dad’s life.

Under the curious stares of the other diners, Mom had no choice. She followed me to the hospital and donated blood. She didn’t say a word—just got up and walked out. It was like she was somewhere else entirely.

She was stiff and silent the whole way. Not a word. Not a glance. Her lips pressed into a thin line. I tried to thank her, but she brushed me off. For her, this was just an obligation, nothing more.

But just as Dad was out of danger, Mom was told her first love had died suddenly, maybe from the shock or heartbreak.

The timing was cruel. One moment, relief washed over us as Dad stabilized. The next, a nurse came running with the news about Mason. Mom’s face froze, and the room seemed to drop several degrees. I swear, people shivered. Silence fell, thick and uneasy.

When she heard the news, Mom’s face didn’t change. She just said calmly, “Everything happens for a reason. It’s not up to us. Maybe it’s better this way—he doesn’t have to suffer anymore.” Her voice was flat, almost robotic. No tears, no visible grief—just a cold acceptance that made my skin crawl. The doctors and nurses exchanged awkward glances, unsure how to respond. I felt a chill run down my spine.

After that, she calmly attended his funeral. Then she calmly came home. She moved through those days like a ghost. It was eerie. She floated from one obligation to the next. I watched her closely, searching for cracks in her composure, but she never faltered. It was like she’d built a wall around herself, and none of us could get in.

She told us her obsession was over, and that from now on she’d live well with us. Her words sounded rehearsed—like something she’d practiced in front of a mirror. Dad seemed relieved, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. This peace felt fake. It was just a mask.

But in secret, she hated Dad and me. She blamed us for keeping her from her first love in his final moments, believing that led to his death. In her eyes, we were murderers—she hated us to the core. That realization burned. I couldn’t unsee it.

I saw it in the way her eyes lingered on us when she thought we weren’t looking. The tightness in her jaw. The little sighs she let out when she thought she was alone. The anger simmered just beneath the surface. Every look was a warning.

On the day I picked Dad up from the hospital, she coldly sabotaged the brakes. She didn’t grin or cackle, but there was something chilling in the way she watched us leave—her hands folded, her eyes following the car as we drove away. It was a look I’ll never forget.

The memory is seared into my mind: her eyes shining with a twisted satisfaction, lips pulled tight in a smile that was all teeth, no warmth. Not even a flicker of regret. I never imagined my own mother could look at me that way.

“You should all go be buried with Mason! You murderers—may you rot in hell forever!”

Her words echoed in my ears as the car tumbled, a curse that seemed to follow me even into death. I never thought I’d hear my mother say something so hateful, but there it was—undeniable. It stuck to me, heavy as lead.

But I didn’t go to hell. On the contrary, because I died so unjustly, I was given a chance to be reborn. I had to blink, make sure I wasn’t dreaming. This was real. I was alive—again.

It was like the universe hit rewind, giving me a shot to set things right. I woke up gasping, heart racing. All the memories, all the pain, and a burning determination not to let history repeat itself.