Chapter 2: Back to the Day It All Fell Apart

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on my brother’s wedding day.

The air smelled of lilies and cheap champagne, the living room packed with relatives in ill-fitting suits. The clock on the wall read 2:45 p.m.—the exact minute my life began to unravel the first time around. I stared at it, heart pounding, thinking: Here we go again.

“Why are you always staring at me like that?” she snapped, shrinking back in her white wedding dress, her eyes narrowed, suspicion written all over her face.

Her voice cut through the chatter like a knife. She looked so young, so innocent—if you didn’t know better. But I did. I saw the calculation behind those wide eyes, the way she angled herself to catch every guest’s attention. The dress was too tight, the makeup caked on, but she pulled it off with a trembling lip and a perfect little gasp. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Staring at her familiar face, I felt dazed for a moment. My stomach twisted. I gripped the back of a chair, knuckles white.

It was like déjà vu, the world tilting as memories crashed over me. My head spun. I had to steady myself, breathing slow. Was this real? Was I really back here, at the start of it all?

This scene—right now—was playing out on my brother’s wedding day.

I could still hear the echo of wedding bells from the church down the street, the scent of barbecue drifting in from the backyard, cousins yelling over a game of cornhole. The house was packed—neighbors, family, friends—everyone pretending to be happy for the newlyweds, pretending everything was perfect.

She hadn’t even said her last goodbyes before starting in on me.

It was almost impressive, how fast she shifted from blushing bride to accuser. The last guests were barely out the door, and already she was sizing me up like I was trouble waiting to happen. Gotta admire the hustle, I guess.

Back then, all I wanted was to treat my new sister-in-law well, make sure she never regretted marrying my brother. I figured if I was extra nice, maybe she’d feel at home. Maybe if I smiled more, joked around, offered to help her settle in, she’d see me as family. I was so naive. I actually thought being decent was enough.

I remember thinking—maybe if I did everything right, she’d finally relax. Maybe if I went out of my way, things would just work out. Ha. Wishful thinking. I thought I could win her over by being the good guy.

So, faced with her accusations, I let my guard down and just stood there, letting her take her shots at me.

I didn’t even defend myself. I thought, let her vent—she’s nervous, new, probably overwhelmed. I figured if I took the blame, things would settle down. I had no idea what kind of mess I was setting in motion.

From that day on, all the relatives thought I was some kind of perv with a thing for my brother’s wife.

The rumor caught fire and never let up. At Thanksgiving, I caught Aunt Linda whispering behind her hand. At church, people gave me side-eye. Even my old friends kept their distance, like I was radioactive.

Wherever I went, people whispered and pointed. I felt every stare, every snicker—like I was on display. I kept my head down, but it didn’t matter. Their judgment followed me everywhere.

It was like wearing a scarlet letter. The looks burned hotter than any insult. I could feel their eyes on me every time I walked into a room. Even the mailman started leaving my packages at the curb. That’s how bad it got.

The girl I was about to get serious with was whisked out of town by her parents—just to keep her away from a “pervert” like me. Her folks packed her up overnight and sent her to her aunt’s in Chicago. We’d just started talking about a future—weekend trips, maybe a place together after graduation. Then, poof. Gone. Not even a goodbye.

The job I was about to land vanished after someone reported me for “something shady.”

I made it through three rounds of interviews, a handshake away from my first real job. Then the offer evaporated. HR called to say they’d “received concerning information.” No explanation. Just a polite brush-off and a closed door.

One stupid rumor and everything unraveled.

It was like dominoes falling, one after another. I tried to hold on, but every time I thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. I watched my world shrink until all I had left was the four walls of my childhood bedroom.

I just hid at home, day after day.

Days blurred together. I barely left my bed, let alone the house. The curtains stayed drawn. My phone buzzed with pitying messages I couldn’t bring myself to answer. Even Mom started tiptoeing around me, like I might shatter if she looked too hard.

But my sister-in-law still wouldn’t let up. She just couldn’t let it rest. She seemed to get a kick out of poking the wound, like it was her favorite hobby.

She seemed to delight in poking the wound. It was like she needed me to stay broken, to keep her own secrets safe. I could see it in her eyes—she wanted me out of the way for good.

If I went out to get a drink, she’d claim I was trying to spy on her and hit me with an ashtray, leaving half my body paralyzed.

It happened in a flash—a burst of anger, the heavy thunk of glass on bone, the cold linoleum under my cheek. The pain was white-hot—then nothing. I woke up in the hospital, unable to move my left side. The doctors called it a "tragic accident." My family just called it "bad luck."

If I got dizzy and steadied myself on the doorframe, she’d jump out and say, “I was just leaning here—are you using that as an excuse to touch me?” Then she’d shove me so hard I’d fall and wreck my back, never able to get up again.

The worst part was the look on her face—triumph mixed with disgust. She knew exactly what she was doing. My brother just stood there, jaw clenched, pretending not to see. Coward.

In the end, after she got pregnant and had my nephew, she accused me in front of everyone of peeking at her while she breastfed. Then, on a stormy night, she threw me out of the house.

The rain came down in sheets, thunder rattling the windows. She screamed about decency, about protecting her child. My brother shoved me out the door, my wheelchair catching on the threshold. I crawled into the night, soaked and shivering, the taste of betrayal bitter on my tongue.

I crawled outside in agony and was run over by a truck. After I died, my soul watched as my family put on a show of grief for outsiders, but once home, they celebrated with the insurance payout from my death, living it up.

They wore black for the funeral, cried for the neighbors, but behind closed doors it was champagne and laughter. My mother counted the insurance money at the kitchen table, my brother made plans for a new truck, and my sister-in-law bragged about her "fresh start."

Maybe it was my stubbornness—my refusal to just roll over—that gave me another shot at life.

Somewhere between rage and heartbreak, I must’ve made a wish. Or maybe God took pity on me. Either way, I woke up back at the beginning, with one last shot to set things right.