Chapter 1

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!]