I decided I’d die in three days. Because my dad wanted to sell me to a 60-year-old man for $500. When I refused, he stripped me down and chained me up right by the door. My mom begged for me, and he smashed a stool over her head, blood gushing everywhere. As long as I could remember, Dad had treated us this way. Once I made up my mind to end it all, I actually felt a sense of relief. But then, the diary in my hands suddenly rustled, and a line of text appeared: [Escape! Take Mom with you!] I rubbed my eyes in disbelief—a line of text really had just appeared! I grabbed a pen, my hand trembling as I wrote a question below it. “Who are you? Can you help me escape?” I stared intently at the diary, until the sun went down, but no more movement appeared on the page. That night, my dad went out drinking again. Only then did my mom dare to bring me a bowl of rice. “Mia, eat quickly. Your dad will be back soon.” Then, she started to hammer away at the chains on my ankles, one strike at a time. “Your dad has the key. I don’t know if this hammer will break it, but if it does, Mia, you run.” I didn’t immediately take the bowl. Instead, my nose stung with unshed tears as I looked at the new and old bruises layered on my mom’s skin. “Mom, come with me. Let’s run away.” At my words, Mom instinctively trembled. “This is my home. Where else would I go?” I squeezed her hand tightly, my voice almost breaking. “Mom! This isn’t your home! It’s hell! Today he’s selling me, tomorrow it’ll be you!” Mom just shook her head, letting out that familiar, helpless sigh. As long as I could remember, my dad, Roger, often came home reeking of alcohol. If there was no food on the table, he’d start cursing. “You worthless hag, slacking off again! I work my ass off every day, and I come home to no hot meal!” Before his words even finished, I heard the sharp sound of a slap. My mom’s frail body was pinned against the bed by my bulky, strong dad. One of her slippers lay discarded by the bed. I shakily picked up that slipper and threw it at my dad’s back. He finally let go of my mom’s throat, turned around, and swung his arm, sending me flying into the cabinet. Seeing me get hit, Mom finally seemed to realize she could fight back. She struggled to her feet, trying to pull me into a hug, but Dad kicked her, sending her sprawling back to the floor. “You worthless hag, and you gave me a dead weight of a child. Ugh! You make me look like a loser wherever I go!” Then he grabbed my mom’s hair, smashing her head against the cabinet again and again. The cabinet boomed with each impact. I tried to crawl over and protect Mom, but Dad’s flying kick sent me flying far away again. I watched the thick, bright red blood gush from Mom’s forehead, wetting her hair, which clumped and matted on her face. I don’t know how long it lasted, but Dad eventually seemed to get tired. He spat on my blood-soaked mom. “Now get your ass in there and cook me some food!” Mom clutched the cabinet door, her blood-matted hair sticking to her face, and stumbled into the kitchen. Dad gobbled down the bowl of noodles in a few bites, slammed the bowl onto the table, and crawled into bed. Mom, still with her blood-matted hair, had to wash the bowl Dad had eaten from. She even had to wipe her own blood off the cabinet door with a wet cloth. That night, snores and muffled sobs intertwined in our small home. The next morning, Dad’s drunken stench had faded. Along with it, his violence towards us disappeared too. He acted as if nothing had happened, gently stroking my mom’s freshly scabbed wounds. He hugged her and said, “Sarah, did I get too drunk last night and hurt you again? It’s all my fault, I lose control when I drink. Does this… not affect your work, right?” Just a few words like that, and Mom took it as care, as love. So all the pain and blood, they just vanished with those two sentences. And so, every time Mom was beaten, she would go to that local factory, covered in bruises, to make socks. Days dragged on like this, until I was chained to the door, waiting to be sold. Just then, the diary displayed another line of text. [I’m here to help you! This time, we must succeed!]
I stared at the newly appeared words on the diary, my fingertips burned. I hastily shoved the diary into my embrace, pressing it tight. “Mia, eat quickly, then go.” Mom’s voice was timid and husky, her hand still trembling slightly. As she fed me, the bruise on her wrist brushed my cheek, cold and painful. “Mom can’t leave. Your dad’s ruined his stomach with all his drinking; if I leave, he won’t even have a hot meal. And your brother…” I pushed the bowl away, grabbing her hand, and lowered my voice: “Mom! How long are you going to be this foolish? He doesn’t love you, and he certainly doesn’t love me!” “He sold me to buy that so-called brother of mine a gaming console! And to buy himself more booze!” The spoon in Mom’s hand clattered into the bowl, soup splashed out, and she nervously tried to wipe it, her eyes darting away. She knew, all along, that Dad had cheated on her and Leo wasn’t his son. She’d merely built a fragile illusion of safety with her endless patience, naively believing that submission could buy her a semblance of peace. I looked pleadingly into my mom’s eyes, even beginning to beg. “Mom, please, let’s go. Just for me, okay?” In that moment, for the first time, I saw a crack in her muddy, tear-filled eyes, a glimmer of hesitation. Mom looked at my tear-streaked face, then touched the fresh wounds on her own. Her eyes slowly changed. She hesitated for a long time. Finally, she said nothing, but she picked up the hammer again, hammering even more desperately at the chain on my ankle. The sparks flying from the hammer and chain were like hope igniting in my heart. But the next second, my hope shattered. My dad came back. He rushed over, cursing, and with a swift kick, sent Mom sprawling to the ground. “What the hell are you doing with that hammer? Trying to free this worthless burden? Ruin my payday?!” Mom swayed under the impact, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth, yet she instinctively shuffled half a step towards me, her voice trembling beyond recognition. “Mia is still young, Mr. Jenkins is old enough to be her grandfather. Please, spare her just this once…” “Spare? Who’ll spare me?” “I’ve fed and clothed her for years, how much money has that cost me? $500 is cheap for her! Anyone who tries to stop me today, I’ll break their legs!” Soon, many neighbors, all from our village, gathered at the doorway. They whispered and pointed, but no one stepped forward. Aunt Carol sighed, turning her face away; Uncle Frank squatted on the ground, smoking, shaking his head in silence. No one asked if I was willing, no one cared about the wounds on my mom’s body. Mom’s reddened eyes slowly dimmed. That glimmer of hesitation, extinguished as if by cold water. She hung her head, her shoulders trembling slightly, and then suddenly, she knelt. “I was wrong, I won’t stop you. Please, don’t hit me anymore.” She wiped the blood and tears from her face, her voice as meek as dust. “Mia… Mia will do as you say. She’ll go live with Mr. Jenkins.” My heart plummeted straight into an icy abyss with her words. The hope the diary brought, and Mom’s retreat at this moment, felt like two knives tearing at me. Just then, an angry voice echoed from outside the courtyard gate. “What the hell are you talking about!”
Grandma Eleanor arrived. The moment she saw me chained up, her tears instantly fell. Eleanor quickly walked to my side, reaching out to unlock the chain, but my dad, Roger, who had just come out, blocked her. “What are you doing here?” Eleanor glared at my dad, trembling with rage. “Roger! This child is your own daughter, how can you chain her up like a dog and try to sell her? Are you even human?!” Dad impatiently shook Eleanor off. “My selling my daughter, what does that have to do with you? This is my family business, mind your own!” Eleanor’s face turned red with anger. She pointed a finger at Dad’s nose, cursing him. “Mind my business? You’re hitting my own daughter! You’re selling my own granddaughter! You’re not fit to be a husband, not fit to be a father! How could Sarah have been so blind as to marry a piece of trash like you!” Dad grew impatient with the scolding. “My son needs food, I need my drinks. If I don’t sell this dead weight, where will the money come from?” Then he squinted and stretched out his hand towards Eleanor. “Or why don’t you give me your pension money for my drinks first?” Eleanor’s face flushed crimson, clutching her chest, she stumbled backward. Dad grew even more brazen: “If you’re so reluctant to part with this worthless burden, then you can go to Mr. Jenkins’ house with her, you two are about the same age anyway!” Eleanor’s face turned purple, clutching her chest, she collapsed to the ground. She stared wide-eyed at the gray sky, her lips trembled a few times, as if wanting to say something, but in the end, not a single word came out. “Eleanor!” I cried out in alarm, trying to crawl over and help her, but the chains held me tight, unable to move. Eleanor lay on the ground, her face turning ashen. She stretched out her hand, but before she could speak, her eyes slowly closed. Mom’s legs gave out, and she collapsed beside Eleanor, crying hysterically. “Mom! Mom! Don’t scare me! Wake up!” Dad also froze, mostly sobered up, but his face showed no hint of regret or panic, only intense irritation and disgust. He frowned, spitting on the ground. “Ugh! Fing bad luck! Couldn’t she at least die somewhere else? Dirtying up my yard!” At his words, Mom’s body stiffened. She slowly raised her head, looking at Dad, her eyes filled with disbelief, and a cold, desperate look I’d never seen before. Her tears still fell, but she no longer cried out loud, just stared fixedly at Dad, as if looking at a stranger. Dad looked uncomfortable under her gaze, and kicked her. “What are you standing there for? Get this old hag out of here! Dump her in the wilderness behind the mountain! Don’t let her be an eyesore!” After saying that, he turned and went into the bedroom. She stopped crying. Her gaze swept over Eleanor, then returned to the chains on me. Her eyes suddenly cleared. “Come on, let’s run away together.” I was overjoyed, hastily pulling out the diary to ask. “What’s the next step?” Just then, the diary began to rustle again. [Wait!]
I was getting impatient, snarling at the diary. “Who are you?! You said you’d help me! Now there’s no help, and you say wait! Wait for what?! If I wait any longer, Mr. Jenkins will come pick me up!” The diary was silent for a moment, then words began to appear again. [Eleanor’s death was unexpected even for me, but trying to escape now will definitely get us caught.] [Only when Mr. Jenkins comes to pick you up, escaping Roger, will you have a chance.] I instantly calmed down. I composed myself, carefully writing, letter by letter, in the diary. “Who are you, really?” The diary didn’t respond again. I could only keep it close to me, waiting for this last chance. For the next two days, time felt like an eternity. Mom was busy with Eleanor’s funeral, her face devoid of tears, replaced by a withered, dead silence. Dad, meanwhile, was worse than ever, as if selling me was something to celebrate. He drank even more heavily, pacing drunkenly in front of me, muttering obscenities. “You better behave yourself at the Jenkins’! If they send you back, I’ll break your legs!” I lowered my head, my hand tightly clutching the diary inside my sleeve. [Wait], that single word became my only anchor. Finally, the third day arrived. A beat-up motorcycle sputtered to a stop outside our house. Mr. Jenkins grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed, rotting teeth. His cloudy eyes fixed on me, slimy and lingering, like insects crawling on my skin, making my entire body tremble with disgust. “So, I’m taking her now, am I?” Dad instantly switched to a sycophantic grin, hastily offering a cigarette. “Take her, take her! Mr. Jenkins, from now on, this girl is yours to manage. Beat her, scold her, whatever makes you happy!” Mr. Jenkins didn’t take the cigarette. He walked straight to me, raising his hand to pinch my cheek. I sharply turned my head away, my stomach churning. “Tsk, quite a fiery spirit. Just my type!” The chains finally came off. I was roughly pulled up by Mr. Jenkins, shoved towards the motorcycle. Just as I was about to be pushed into the sidecar, I sharply turned my head. She stood at the threshold, her hair messy, the bruises on her face not yet faded. The moment our eyes met, tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back, quickly blinking at me. And discreetly, she slipped a small, polished knife into my pocket, its handle still warm from her palm. I clutched the knife, my knuckles turning white from clenching, and nodded gently. The motorcycle sputtered to life, kicking up a cloud of dust. I stared fixedly in the direction of our house, until that dilapidated door and the solitary figure in front of it completely vanished around the bend. A celebratory meal was already spread out at Mr. Jenkins’ house. The diary began to rustle again. [Get him drunk.] I gritted my teeth, stood up, and slowly walked to the table. “I’ll pour you a drink.” He froze for a moment, then burst out laughing, tilting his head back to down an entire glass of liquor. I kept pouring, and imitating the village women, I urged him, “Drink more, it’ll warm you up.” My encouragement made him drink even more heavily. Before long, his face was flushed crimson, his eyes glazed over. He slumped onto the table, grumbling, and soon began to snore. I held my breath, waiting for a long while, confirming he was truly dead drunk. Only then did I reach for the keyring on his belt, snatching it and bolting out the door. Outside, the sky had already darkened. The wind stung my face, but it felt sweet. I ran like crazy, not stopping even when one shoe came off, an involuntary smile curling on my lips. “Mom. We can finally escape. We’re going to live for ourselves!” The lights were on at home. I gasped for breath, tiptoeing as I pushed open the door. The moment I stepped into the bedroom, my whole body froze.
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