Rejecting the Same Fate After Rebirth

My parents smuggled me onto a packed train during the holiday rush by shoving me into a suitcase.

“The money we save on your ticket can buy your brother a new pair of sneakers,” Mom said with a smile.

It was a grueling journey, over thirty hours in total. I stayed cramped in that suitcase the entire ride, too scared to move, until I ran out of air and suffocated to death.

By the time we arrived at my relatives’ house in the village, my parents had already taken my younger brother to the playground and were busy watching the New Year’s fireworks. It wasn’t until the following day that they remembered me. They remembered I was still locked inside that suitcase and because it was winter, my body had already frozen stiff.

“Why did this damn child have to die at the beginning of the year? What terrible luck!” my mother muttered, spitting on my frozen body as if I were nothing more than a nuisance.

They went ahead and demanded five thousand dollars from the Walter family so they could bury me next to their son, who had died young and with special needs. The plan? To make me his ghost bride.

When I opened my eyes again, I realized what had happened. I had been reborn.

——

“Tomorrow, we’re going back to the hometown for the New Year, Al. Come on over and take out your clothes. Let’s see if you fit in this suitcase,” my mom said casually, as if it was just another ordinary day.

“If you fit, we won’t need to buy a ticket and we can use that money to buy your little brother new sneakers,” she added, smiling brightly.

Her words were like a slap to the face, a reminder of the past I thought I’d escaped. Nothing had changed—not really—despite my rebirth.

Our family of four headed back to the village to celebrate the New Year. To save money for my little brother’s new sneakers, my parents shoved me into the suitcase once again, hoping to avoid buying a train ticket. As I started suffocating, I tried to scream, to beg for help, but my cries were drowned out by the noise of the train.

I died in the most tragic way—choked, gasping for air, unable to even make a sound.

My little brother whined and begged to go to the playground the whole trip. As soon as we stepped off the train, my parents rushed to the playground with him, completely forgetting I was still in the suitcase. No one remembered me. Or rather, no one remembered my body that was now frozen solid.

After a day and a night, they finally remembered they had a daughter—locked away in that suitcase. But even then, there wasn’t a hint of regret. Not a single tear was shed. They even went so far as to call me bad luck for ruining their New Year’s celebration.

“Why did I have to have a daughter like her? Of all days, why did she have to die at the start of the New Year? What a jinx!” my mother cursed bitterly.

They tossed my body aside without a second thought and made up a story for anyone who asked.

“Alma had always been handy. She loved to mess with her brother. That day, she steal one his toy and ran away, tripping down the stairs and..., she passed away. Such a tragic accident,” my mother said with tears in her eyes, though they were as fake as her sympathy.

To cover up the mess, they asked for five thousand dollars from Mrs. Walter, a neighbor in the village, to make me the ghost bride of her foolish son, Jodi Walter, who had died the year before from accidentally falling into a pond. They even bragged about it.

“Aren’t we just the best parents in the world? We even got her a husband in the afterlife,” my father said with pride.

The money, of course, wasn’t used for anything so noble. It went straight into buying my little brother the latest gaming gear, a complete setup that made me sick to even think about.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered those final moments—locked in that dark, suffocating suitcase, unable to cry out for help. That was the most painful, tragic way to die.

My family—the ones who should have been my protectors, my safe haven—were the ones who pushed me into the depths of hell. I swore to myself that in this life, I would never make the same mistake again.

When I stayed silent, unmoving, my mother’s expression turned from soft to tight with frustration.

“Why won’t you answer me? I’ve always cared for you, haven’t I? Why won’t you obey me?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

My father openly called me a worthless drain on their resources. Mom, though, was different—or so I’d thought. She used to stop him when he hit me with salted bamboo sticks. She’d patch me up afterward, clucking her tongue at the bruises and cuts.

But it was also her idea to stuff me into that suitcase. It was her voice that cursed me for ruining the holiday when I died. She was the one who sold me to a dead man’s grave for a few measly dollars. The same woman now smiled at me as if she cared.