My Parents, Their Pet, My Hell

The Great Depression had gnawed away at everything, leaving my family-my parents, Mark and Susan, and me, Sarah-scrambling for survival in a city choked with despair.

Then, they found Buddy, a stray golden retriever, shivering in an alley.

Suddenly, my meager cannery wages, meant for rent and food, were funneled into premium dog food, toys, and vet visits for him. I worked myself to exhaustion, only to watch them hand-feed Buddy roasted chicken from our good plates while I got watery potato soup.

He wasn't just a dog; a cold, malevolent intelligence lurked in his eyes, a mocking smirk reserved just for me. When I tried to evict him, he bit me, and my parents blamed me, tending to him while I bled, calling me a "jealous, worthless girl."

My world shattered when I was laid off, and an eviction notice arrived. Our only hope was a government housing lottery. But when I announced it, my parents only saw three spots: one for them, and one for Buddy.

"He's not a dog!" my mother screamed. "He's family! More family than you've ever been!"

They raced off, dragging Buddy, leaving me, weakened by hunger and infection, to chase after them. I watched, horrified, as an official marked three names: my father, my mother, and the dog.

They were ushered through the gate. They didn't look back as it locked, leaving me outside. Through the bars, Buddy looked at me and grinned.

I died alone, freezing in an alley.

Then, a sudden jolt. My eyes flew open. I was in my bed, the morning my parents found Buddy. My blood ran cold, hearing their cheerful voices.

I was back. And this time, I wouldn't die in the cold. I would find out why they chose a dog over their own daughter. And they would pay.