Second chance runaway

The sharp sting of my mother's hand striking my cheek jolted me from my thoughts. My face burned where her palm had connected, and I could feel the tears welling up, though I refused to let them fall.

"Becoming a model won't bring you anywhere!" my mother spat, her eyes flashing with anger. Her words were like knives, cutting deep into the dreams I had dared to voice. This argument was familiar, a well-worn path of disappointment and crushed aspirations. But something was different. 

I looked around, my breath catching in my throat. This was our old house, the one we lived in when I was eighteen. The wallpaper, the worn-out furniture, the slightly musty smell—it was all the same. Panic and confusion surged through me. Had I somehow gone back in time?

"Why aren't you answering me?" my mother demanded, her voice tinged with frustration. She stood there, her fair skin flushed with irritation, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. The lines around her eyes seemed softer, less pronounced. She looked younger.

I glanced at my sister Clara, sitting on the couch, watching the scene unfold with a smirk. She was a vision of cruel beauty, with her pale skin and blonde hair, a stark contrast to my own darker complexion and curly black hair. Clara had always been the favorite, the golden child who could do no wrong. Seeing her like this, her youthful face untouched by the malice I now knew lay beneath, sent a shiver down my spine.

I looked down at my hands, my fingers trembling slightly. There was no wedding ring, no sign of the life I had been living. My heart pounded as the realization set in—I was eighteen again. Somehow, inexplicably, I had been given a second chance.

"Leave me alone," I muttered, pushing past my mother. She stared at me, bewildered by my sudden change in demeanor. Ignoring her protests, I made my way to my bedroom, the room I hadn't seen in years.

As I stepped inside, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. The walls were adorned with posters of supermodels, their glamorous images a stark contrast to the simplicity of my surroundings. The room was small, with a twin bed covered in a floral quilt, a worn desk cluttered with schoolbooks, and a small closet that barely held my limited wardrobe. It was a cute room, but it was clear that my mother had never invested much in it—her attention and resources had always been reserved for Clara.

I walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall and stared at my reflection. The face looking back at me was undeniably younger, unmarked by the years of pain and hardship I had endured. My curly black hair framed my face in soft waves, my brown skin glowing with youthful vitality. The dark circles that had become a permanent fixture under my eyes were gone, replaced by a fresh, rested look. My clothes, however, were a different story. I was wearing a dated outfit, a simple blouse and jeans that I remembered as being some of the few pieces I had at the time. 

My heart raced as I processed the situation. I had come back in time. This was my chance to change everything, to take control of my destiny and seek the revenge I had sworn as I lay dying in the street. I could already feel the anger and determination building within me.

I leaned closer to the mirror, taking in the details of my younger self. My eyes, dark and fierce, reflected the resolve that was quickly solidifying in my mind. I had been given a rare gift, an opportunity to rewrite my story.

"I came back in time," I whispered to my reflection, a fierce smile spreading across my face. "Now it's time to get my revenge."

I took a moment to soak in the familiarity of my room, the memories flooding back with each passing second. Despite the simplicity of the space, there was a sense of comfort in its familiarity. It felt like coming home after a long journey, like I was being given a second chance to make things right.

I couldn't help but smile at the thought. This time, I wouldn't let fear or doubt hold me back. This time, I would seize every opportunity, chase every dream with unwavering determination. I would make sure that I didn't end up trapped in the same cycle of disappointment and regret.

On the table beside me, I spotted the papers for enrolling in the modeling school. My heart skipped a beat as I picked them up, the weight of possibility settling in my chest. The only condition for enrollment was having previously signed a contract or posed for a brand. There were also a few online offers listed, promising a chance to kickstart my modeling career.

With renewed determination, I began to search the room for my old phone. After a few moments of rummaging through drawers and boxes, I found it tucked away in a corner. I punched in the familiar passcode—12/04/2000, my birthday. It wasn't the most secure password, but at least I wouldn't forget it.

As the phone unlocked, I scrolled through the messages and emails, searching for any trace of my past self's aspirations. There were a few photos of me with friends, some texts from classmates, but nothing related to modeling. Frustration gnawed at the edges of my resolve, but I pushed it aside. I refused to let anything deter me from my goal.

Just as I was about to give up hope, the door to my room creaked open, and Clara sauntered in, her trademark smirk firmly in place. My heart sank at the sight of her, resentment bubbling up inside me. She was the embodiment of everything I had come to despise—privileged, entitled, and utterly contemptuous of anyone she deemed beneath her.

"What do you want?" I asked, my tone cold and clipped. Clara's smile widened at my obvious irritation.

"Nothing, I just wanted to see the look on your face after Mom's rejection," she replied, her voice dripping with condescension. "You'd better stick to being a secretary; it suits you."

With that final jab, she turned and left the room, the door slamming shut behind her. I let out a heavy sigh, frustration and anger swirling inside me like a tempest. But as quickly as the negative emotions surfaced, I quelled them. I wouldn't let Clara—or anyone else—dictate my future.

"I won't let anyone walk all over me anymore," I vowed, the words a silent promise to myself. This time, things would be different. This time, I would make sure of it.