As the days passed, something shifted.
The relationship I had with my friends began to fade. It wasn't something that happened overnight, but little by little, I found myself drifting further away from them. I didn't have time for the things we used to do, not when I was working so hard to keep a roof over our heads. And the stress, the exhaustion, it weighed on me. I wasn't in the mood to talk or laugh or hang out like I used to.
It didn't take long before they started to distance themselves from me too.
At first, I thought maybe it was just a phase. Maybe they didn't understand what I was going through, maybe they thought I was just tired. But then I heard it.
I found out that their parents had told them to stop talking to me.
I wasn't surprised.
They said I was a bad omen, that I was cursed, that everyone around me had died. They said it wasn't good to associate with me.
I didn't know how to feel.
It wasn't like I was angry, not really. I wasn't mad at them. I was... disappointed. They had been my friends, people I thought I could rely on. But when I needed them the most, when my world was falling apart, they just turned their backs.
I didn't blame them.
It wasn't like I did anything to try to keep the friendship, either. I was just too lost in my own world, too overwhelmed by everything happening around me.
But still, it hurt. It hurt more than I wanted to admit.
I tried to ignore it.
But when everyone at school started calling me "the curse," when they started avoiding me like I was some kind of plague, I couldn't ignore it anymore.
Even the family on my mother's side, the ones who were supposed to be there for me, couldn't take care of me or my brother. They couldn't help us.
I was alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
No friends. No family. Just me and my brother, clinging to whatever I could to keep us going.
It was hard to accept that no one cared.
But I did.
I had to.
Because no one else would.
***
One day, I was coming back from work, exhausted after a long shift, my mind weighed down by the endless cycle of survival. I walked down the familiar street, hoping for a moment of peace at home, when everything changed.
A van pulled up beside me.
Before I could react, I was yanked inside, and everything went black.
I didn't know who they were, or why they took me. I only knew that their faces were filled with nothing but malice.
For three months, I was trapped with them.
I don't remember much of the first few days—it's like my mind shut down to protect me. But what I do remember is pain. Pain that never stopped. I was tortured, beaten, cut, and left to bleed. They took everything from me, piece by piece.
I lost my left eye.
I lost my left arm.
I lost a part of my humanity, and I didn't know how much longer I could survive. My body became a map of scars, bruises, and the remnants of what I once was.
But in the depths of my suffering, something inside me kept me going. I didn't know if it was hope or desperation, but when I saw the chance to escape, I took it.
One day, my kidnappers weren't there.
It was the moment I had been waiting for. I ran, stumbling, weak from the months of abuse, but I kept going. I didn't stop.
I made it to the hospital, my body barely functioning, my mind hazy from everything that had happened.
And then, I lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I could feel the sterile air of the hospital around me, the beeping of machines in the background. My body ached, but there was only one thing on my mind.
"Where... where's my little brother ?" I whispered, my voice cracked from disuse. I was desperate to know if he was okay.
The nurse came in, her face pale, her eyes filled with sorrow. She walked to my bedside, her gaze sad but gentle.
"How is he?" I asked again, my heart pounding. "Is he awake? Is he okay?"
She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she placed them on my arm.
"I'm so sorry..." she whispered softly, her voice breaking as she looked down.
I froze, my heart sinking into my stomach. "What do you mean?"
She took a deep breath, tears welling in her eyes. "Your little brother... has passed away a month ago. His heart suddenly stopped beating, and we couldn't save him. I'm sorry, all my sincere condolences."
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak.
Six years old. My little brother. Gone.
I didn't know how to process it, how to feel. The world felt so far away as I lay there, lost in the emptiness of that moment. My heart broke into pieces I couldn't gather.
I closed my eye, trying to hold back the wave of grief that crashed over me, but it was impossible. The pain of everything I had lost—of losing him—was too much to bear.
I thought I had already lost everything, but I didn't know what real loss felt like until that moment.
Depression settled in me like a permanent shadow. I didn't cry anymore. What was the point? I had no tears left for this world, no more energy to fight against the emptiness. Everything felt... pointless.
***
One day, I became really sick, my body weaker than usual. But I didn't care. I ignored it, pretending it didn't exist. It was just another thing to push aside. I had already lost so much—what difference would one more thing make?
I was alone now. Truly alone.
I walked through the streets, my body sluggish, my mind numb, until I found myself standing in front of the cemetery.
The place was cold, wet with rain. The gravestones stared back at me like old friends, each one a reminder of everything I had lost.
I walked slowly through the rows of graves, each one marked with the names of my family.
My mother.
My stepfather.
My little sister.
My two older brothers.
My grandma.
My little brother.
I stood in front of their graves, the rain pouring down on me like it was trying to wash away the sorrow. I sat there, in the middle of the cemetery, and for the first time since all of this had started... I cried.
I cried for them. I cried for myself.
I cried for the pain, the anger, the despair I had been carrying with me all this time. I let it all out, every feeling I had buried so deep. It was as if the weight of the world had finally fallen from my shoulders, only to be replaced with the overwhelming grief of losing everyone.
The rain mingled with my tears, but it didn't matter. I didn't care anymore.
When the tears finally stopped, I stood up shakily, feeling drained and weak from both the sickness and the emotional release. I stumbled out of the cemetery, finding a nearby bench to sit on. I collapsed there, too tired to move. My body was exhausted, and my mind was blank.
I must have fallen asleep, because I never woke up again.
I died at 16 years old.
Alone.
That was how my first life ended.
But it wasn't the end for me.