Chapter 1: Reborn for Revenge

In my previous life, my younger sister and I were kidnapped and sold to a remote Appalachian town, used and abused until the day we died, broken and ashamed.

Those years still live in my bones, cold and heavy as river stones. The smell of mildew, sweat, and fear never really left my mind. Some nights, I still wake up tasting blood and dirt.

Adoptive Mom and Dad, you never saw this coming, did you? We’ve come back—did you ever think you’d see us again?

You probably thought we were lost forever, just two more faces on a milk carton. But here we are, back in your world. And this time? We’re not helpless. We’re not alone.

This time, we came back with something new—a punishment system.

It’s not magic—at least, not the kind you read about. It’s justice. Raw, sharp, and ours now. We’re not just here to survive. We’re here to make things right.

And this time, we’re not holding back. We’re here to send you all straight to hell.

The words taste sweeter every time I think them. I picture the faces of those who hurt us. Finally, they’ll get what they deserve.

"You worthless brat! You still think you can run?"

Marlene’s voice echoed down the hallway, thick with rage. Every word was a stone, thrown just to bruise. I braced myself.

"You little punk, get over here!" she yelled, her voice cracking. My stomach twisted, but I didn’t move.

Her footsteps thundered on the warped floorboards. The whole house seemed to tremble with her anger.

"You think you deserve to eat that egg? Your filthy hands can’t do anything right!"

The kitchen reeked of grease and old coffee. I clutched the egg in my palm, feeling the slippery white ooze between my fingers, wishing I could disappear.

"If it weren’t for your looks—and the hope I could get more cash for you someday—I’d have drowned you in the creek back then."

Marlene Barker waved a cracked leather belt, swearing up a storm as she chased after me.

The belt was old and split. Even before it landed, I could already feel that familiar, bone-deep pain.

It whistled through the air—a sound I’d come to dread. Yet somehow, I always expected it. Like thunder before rain. My back tensed, bracing for the sting.

Marlene’s face was round and red, her eyes bulging like I’d just burned the house down.

Her cheeks puffed, veins standing out in her neck. Her lips curled into a sneer that could curdle milk. She looked like she might pop right out of her skin.

But all I did was eat the egg my younger brother handed to me.

Yeah, Marlene is my mother. Lucky me.

But in her eyes, there’s only my brother. Me? I’m just a useless burden.

I ran desperately into the rickety woodshed. I ignored Marlene’s insults, ignored the sharp sting on my back.

The woodshed door creaked as I slammed it shut. My breath came in ragged gasps. I pressed myself into the shadows, willing myself invisible.

"You deadbeat, come out!" Marlene’s voice was muffled through the door.

The shed door rattled as she pounded on it. I held my breath.

Her fists made the old wood shudder. Dust drifted down in lazy motes. I shrank deeper into the corner, heart pounding so loud I thought she might hear it.

I dug out an old spiral notebook and half a chewed-up pencil from a hidden hole in the wall. My hands shook.

My hands shook as I fished them out, knuckles raw from earlier chores. The notebook was soft with age—its pages yellowed, corners curling up like dried leaves.

Before I wrote anything, I took a shaky breath. Then I scrawled: "Marlene Barker will immediately go steal eggs from Mrs. Watson’s house next door."

My handwriting was a mess, but you could still read it.

I pressed the pencil hard, carving the words into the paper. Almost like the force alone could make it real.

The second I scribbled the period, everything outside the shed went quiet.

A hush fell—unnatural, sudden. The pounding faded, replaced by a silence that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

After a moment, Marlene tossed the belt down and muttered, "The chickens next door laid a bunch of eggs today. I’ll go snatch a few."

Her voice was low, almost dazed, like she was talking to herself. I heard the belt hit the ground with a dull slap. Then her heavy footsteps receded.

Hearing her footsteps fade, I let out a shaky breath. I hid the notebook again.

My fingers fumbled with the loose board, heart still racing. I tucked the notebook away—my secret weapon—and wiped sweat from my brow.

"Sis, come quick! You gotta see this!" My heart skipped, wondering what now.

My brother called to me from outside, his voice full of excitement.

His words tumbled over each other, urgent and bright. I heard his sneakers crunching on gravel. The thrill in his tone made me curious, even though I tried not to be.

Loud shouting and cussing drifted over from next door.

The kind of hollering that made the crows scatter from the fence posts. I peeked out, drawn by the noise.

Mrs. Watson was famous in town for being stingy and mean. Clearly, Marlene’s egg-stealing didn’t go smoothly.

Mrs. Watson’s reputation was legendary—she once chased a stray dog with a broom for an hour, swearing the whole time. If Marlene thought she’d get away easy, she was dead wrong.

From the sound of it, Mrs. Watson caught Marlene sneaking around the chicken coop, trying to stuff eggs in her shirt.

Eggs cracked, chickens squawked, and Mrs. Watson’s voice rose above it all—shrill as a siren. I could picture Marlene, red-faced and scrambling, clutching broken shells to her chest.

My brother and I climbed up on the fence to look. The backyard was a disaster—lettuce leaves, eggshells, everything scattered everywhere.

I hooked my leg over the slats, careful not to get a splinter. The scene was pure chaos—chickens running wild, vegetables trampled into the mud, and two grown women in the middle of it all.

Marlene had raw egg dripping down her head. Mrs. Watson had three bloody scratches on her cheek.

Egg yolk glistened in Marlene’s hair, sticky and bright in the morning sun. Mrs. Watson clutched her cheek, glaring daggers, her hair wild from the fight.

The two women couldn’t outcurse each other and had already started brawling—rolling in the dirt, pulling hair, spitting at each other.

It was like a scene out of a bad reality show—screaming, slapping, rolling in the mud. I half expected someone to whip out a phone and start recording, but in this town, folks preferred to watch live.

That scene... was almost too much to watch. Almost.

My brother stifled a giggle beside me. I pressed my hand to my mouth, torn between horror and the urge to laugh.