Just five minutes ago, I opened my eyes and welcomed my fourth life. In my first life, when I was five, my mom claimed I stole money and accidentally pushed me off the balcony. In my second life, when I was fifteen, she locked me in the attic to force me to give my prestigious early admission spot to my cousin. I starved to death. In my third life, when I was seventeen, she cut my car’s brake lines the night before my driving test. Now, I’m back, two months before my seventeenth birthday. “Autumn, why aren’t you eating?” Mom sat beside me, glancing sideways at my dazed expression. Her eyes, brimming with what looked like care, were actually dissecting me. “Is Mom’s cooking not good? Or has my Autumn grown tired of it?” On the table before me was the same lunch I’d had for seventeen years. I looked up at the woman everyone called “the perfect mother.” I knew that in two months, I would face my fourth “perfect death.” But this time, the creator of this perfect plan would be different.
“Autumn, eat more. You’re still growing.” A piece of fish, meticulously deboned, was gently placed into my bowl. My mother, Eleanor Vance, watched me, her eyes overflowing with an affection that felt like it could drown me. I lowered my head, using the act of shoveling rice to hide the surge of terror and coldness in my gaze. Yes, terror. Even though I had experienced this scene three times before. This time, I was thoroughly prepared, but the pain from the previous three lives was an inescapable memory. Watching my blood drain, my bones shatter during that first fall… Gnawing at my own hands, blood everywhere, my stomach burning with hunger during the second… The car spinning out of control and crashing into the barrier, the searing pain of metal piercing my lungs during the third… My fingertips trembled uncontrollably, and my whole body felt icy. The chilling realization crept over me, a stark reminder. Beneath that facade of gentle affection lay a soul so twisted and malicious. “Thank you, Mom.” I looked up, forcing a smile of loving dependence, the kind a doted-on girl should have. I couldn’t let her see any cracks. In front of her, I had to be the most perfect, most harmless, most obedient daughter. “Silly child, why be formal with Mom?” She reached out, gently smoothing the stray hairs from my forehead. Her fingertips brushing my skin sent a shiver down my spine. Eleanor Vance projected the image of a perfect single mother to the outside world – a renowned professor, a widow whose husband had passed away young. She single-handedly raised her daughter with strength and optimism. All the neighbors, teachers, and relatives were moved by her “greatness.” Only I knew that this “love” was a poison wrapped in honey. After dinner, I voluntarily cleared the table and went to the kitchen to wash the dishes. This was one of my displays of “learning my lesson” in this life. Amidst the rushing water, I mentally sorted through the death points of my previous three lives. At five, it was because I refused her third extracurricular class, wanting to go downstairs and play with other kids. At fifteen, it was because I, through my own efforts, earned the prestigious early admission spot to a top-tier university that she had always wanted for my cousin. At seventeen, it was because I secretly saved money for driving lessons, planning a spontaneous trip to escape her control after getting into college. And each death began when she discovered her puppet was developing its own independent will, attempting to break free from her grasp. “Autumn, the dishes are clean. Come eat some fruit.” Her gentle voice drifted from the living room. “Coming, Mom.” I dried my hands and walked into the living room. She was holding out a plate of sliced apple pieces, each speared with a toothpick, offering them to my mouth. Even though I’d disliked apples since childhood and would instinctively feel nauseous, I still obediently ate them. The cloying sweetness spread in my mouth, yet it made me feel a wave of sickness. I forced myself to swallow. She watched me with satisfaction, as if appraising her own masterpiece. After a moment, Eleanor suddenly said softly: “Autumn, promise Mom you’ll always be Mom’s good little girl, okay?” Her smile remained gentle, but deep within those beautiful eyes, a chilling flicker of possessiveness and contentment shone. “We’ll never be apart.” My heart lurched violently, almost stopping. This sentence, in my previous three lives, she had uttered every single time before she killed me. In that moment, I realized with absolute clarity. No matter how obedient I appeared, the countdown to my fourth death had already begun the moment she saw my driving test practice questions. The plan to kill me had quietly started in her mind. 2. To survive, I had to be proactive. I began to mimic and study the rules of a “perfect daughter” like the most devout apprentice. She liked me in light-colored clothes. Even though she never asked, my wardrobe no longer contained any dark colors. I would even proactively acknowledge her success after putting on light clothes, “Mom really has good taste. The clothes she picked suit me perfectly.” She wanted me to excel academically. I consistently ranked first in my class. When relatives and friends praised me, I would just smile modestly, “Mom trained me so well. My success comes from my mom’s efforts.” She detested me having any secrets. So I would “share” every trivial school matter, playing the role of a naive, completely transparent child. At the same time, I became a ghost. I began searching this prison called “home” for any clues related to my previous deaths. But in my first life, I was too young to fully grasp the patterns until it was too late. So, I thought of the attic where I starved to death in my second life. In this life, as in the second before my mother locked me in it, she used it for storage. It was almost never opened, and I was never allowed to step foot inside. “It’s too dirty in there.” Mom would always look upstairs, muttering cryptically, “My Autumn is a clean and tidy princess, not meant to get even a speck of dust.” “If a little princess gets dirty, she won’t be loved anymore.” So, one afternoon when she went out shopping, I found my chance. She must not have expected me to defy her and enter her forbidden zone. The brass key was still hidden in its familiar spot above the doorframe. “Click.” The sealed door creaked open, and dust billowed out. I seemed to see myself in my second life, huddled in a filthy corner. My hands were covered in blood from gnawing at them, inflamed and festering, swollen and ugly. No longer a trace of a princess, I was murmuring, “Mom, I’m sorry…” before finally closing my eyes. The attic was filled with old junk, emitting a musty smell. My gaze honed in on an inconspicuous old wooden box in the corner. In my previous life, when I was dying of hunger, I had frantically rummaged through here. My nails had left deep scratches on the lid, but I hadn’t found anything to eat. I walked over, brushed away the dust, and those scratches were still faintly visible. The box wasn’t locked. I took a deep breath and yanked it open. There were no terrifying objects inside, nor any food. Only a few of my baby clothes and some old toys I no longer played with. Had I guessed wrong? Unwilling to give up, I reached into the bottom of the box, feeling around. My fingertips brushed against something cold and hard. I pulled out a palm-sized, intricately crafted diamond jewelry box. It was hidden at the very bottom, beneath the old clothes. I took it out, my heart pounding. I had never seen this box before. Even after searching this place so many times in my last life, meticulously going through every corner, I had never found this box. It was secured with a small, old-looking lock, seemingly simple. It was as if the owner hadn’t even thought about me finding it. I found a thin wire. Driven by a fierce desire to live, I carefully fiddled with it. “Snap.” The lock clicked open. 3. I held my breath and slowly opened the lid. No jewels, no ornaments. The box was lined with soft red velvet, and on it lay three things: A small, brittle strand of hair tied with a red string. A rusty, old-fashioned key. A plastic card fragment, clipped to only show the words “Driv” and “Lic.” My blood seemed to freeze instantly. These three items were horrifyingly familiar to me! That hair was torn from the broken balcony railing when I “fell” in my first life! That rusty key was identical to the one in my hand that had opened this door. It looked like the key that locked the attic door in my second life! It should have been thrown away! And that driver’s license fragment? It was my newly acquired license, clutched in my hand when my third “accident” happened! Eleanor Vance didn’t just kill me three times; she was a twisted collector. Keeping “souvenirs” from each of my deaths! My hands trembling, I picked up the strand of hair. At the bottom of the box, there was a yellowed piece of paper, appearing quite old. On it was Eleanor Vance’s handwriting, pressed so hard it almost pierced through the paper. [The most perfect love is eternal possession.] The discovery in the box was like a key, unlocking more overlooked details in my memory. Before each “accident,” Eleanor Vance seemed to take me on a short “mother-daughter getaway.” When I questioned it, she said it was to strengthen our bond. “Autumn, you are the most important person to Mom, but you’re growing up, and Mom’s time with you is getting shorter.” Her gaze was mournful, as if she imagined me leaving her and spreading my wings in the future. She wiped away a tear, “Mom just wants to keep you by her side, to be with you forever.” My heart softened for a moment. I thought she was just a single mother afraid of losing me. So she became frantic, never imagining that her fear of loss would lead her to the most “perfect” way: killing me. The first life, it was a picnic in the countryside. The second, a trip back to the old family homestead to “reminisce.” The third, watching the sunrise from a mountaintop. And each destination was cleverly chosen to be far from crowds, facilitating the “accident.” I could almost certainly say she was selecting the location for the fourth “ceremony.” The unbearable pain, the promising future ahead – I couldn’t just sit back and wait anymore. That weekend, she indeed suggested taking me to the newly opened Grand City Mall, which had a huge indoor glass observation deck. “Autumn, I heard the view there is especially good. Mom wants to see the city skyline with you.” She was loving and gentle. My internal alarm bells shrieked. This day, it was coming even sooner than in my past lives. 4. “But Mom…” The refusal was on my tongue, but I remembered she never allowed me to have my own thoughts. I subtly redirected, “Aren’t you supposed to take me for tutoring this weekend?” With college applications approaching, she wanted me to be a perfect daughter with excellent grades. She paused for only a second before looking at me with genuine sincerity: “Mom doesn’t want you to be too tired. You’ve been working so hard, Mom sees it all. So I thought we could go relax a bit.” Seeing I hadn’t replied, she reached out and took my hand. “Sweetheart, you don’t want to go?” No matter how much I resisted internally, meeting the icy glint in her eyes, I could only nod in agreement. The words “I don’t want to” were like kindling, only fueling the fire she had to kill me. On the observation deck, crowds swirled. Beneath the transparent glass floor was a dizzying drop, like a hundred-story abyss. I looked down, feeling panicked and dizzy, my palms sweating. My mother pulled my hand, leading me to a slightly less crowded area near the edge. “Autumn, look, isn’t it beautiful?” She pointed into the distance, her body subtly shifting to stand slightly behind and to my side. The déjà vu of falling and the blood-red haze before my eyes warned me: this moment might be the end of this life. Through the reflective glass curtain wall, shining like a mirror. I clearly saw her hand, hanging at her side, fingers slightly curled, as if preparing something. Just as her shoulder twitched, and her arm was about to lift – in that split second of critical danger – I suddenly squatted down, exclaiming loudly: “Mom, my shoelace is untied!” I moved out of her path, out of the trajectory where she could push me, and bent my head as if truly focused on tying my shoelace. Her poised arm missed its target. Her body stumbled forward a step from inertia, her hand awkwardly bracing against the glass wall. In that moment, reflected in the glass floor beneath my feet. I clearly caught the cold malice that hadn’t quite faded from her face, and a fleeting look of surprise, annoyance. And a hint of being exposed, a momentary flicker of guilt. Though it vanished instantly, in that single moment, my perfect mother dropped her disguise. “You clumsy child, always so careless.” She quickly recomposed her expression, her tone chiding. She reached out and smilingly gripped my arm tightly. But the chill in her eyes hadn’t receded, and her nails pressed so hard they almost dug into my flesh. In that moment, I felt like I was plunging into an abyss. I had dodged her plan, and she, it seemed, now knew this was no accident. That night, I pretended to be asleep. After she quietly closed my bedroom door, I heard voices from the living room, cold and agitated. “She found out. She knows! The plan must be moved up; it has to be done before her eighteenth birthday.”
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