สั้น Emotional Realism เรื่องและนวนิยาย

On the very first day of my rebirth, I immediately quit my job, a dream position with a lucrative salary and weekends off. Instead, I went straight to a shady loan shark to borrow ten million dollars. In my past life, my boyfriend’s childhood best friend used a system to steal my hard-earned paychecks. She took my money and traveled the world with my boyfriend. She even went live online to donate money to retirement homes, praised by netizens everywhere as a literal angel. Meanwhile, the one million dollars I had saved up for my mother’s life-saving surgery after working overnight shifts was wiped out in an instant. I begged her to return my money. Yet, she put on a pathetic, innocent act. “Have some self-respect! If you want money, earn it yourself. Why are you forcing me to hand over mine?” My boyfriend sneered at me. “Why can’t you learn from her and be an independent woman? Would you die if you weren't so greedy?!” The very next day, rumors framing me as a gold-digger blew up across the internet, which led my mom to die of a heart attack. My boyfriend and his childhood friend took my one million dollars, bought a luxury sports car, and went on a joyride without a care in the world. As for me, I was smuggled into an offshore scam compound, turned into a cash-generating puppet, and ultimately died after having my organs harvested. This time around, I’d love to see how his childhood friend travels the world while carrying a massive, mountain-high debt!

After spending five years in Virtue School, I was a machine that dutifully carried out every order. Seeing me staying as silent as a grave, my father exclaimed happily, "Jojo's such a good boy now. Come on, let's eat! Let's celebrate!" Hearing the order to eat, I sprang to my feet, grabbed a plate, and stayed on all fours, shoving food into my own mouth with my own hands. My sister Josie shot me a look of disgust. "Mom! Dad! How has he improved?! He's even more annoying now!" On the other hand, the culprit who made me like this—the adopted orphan of my mother's fallen comrade—was suddenly tearing up, his voice cracking. "Sorry, brother… I didn't know you'd hate me for so long. "If you hate me that much, I will go to my mother. I'm more than content after your parents have taken care of me for so long." My brain, essentially lobotomized by shock therapy, couldn't understand such complex sentences. So I only watched as he gritted his teeth and pressed his dinner knife against his own neck. My parents promptly leaped up to stop him, while Josie bellowed at me, "No! If anyone should die, it's Joseph! He's such a jinx, ruining the mood here as soon as he comes back!" It was another complex sentence, but my mind caught the order this time. 'Die. Joseph.' Without hesitation, I scrambled to my feet, dashed toward the open window, and jumped.

At my mom's 50th birthday party, the host suddenly invites my adoptive sister, Megan Fraser, and me onstage to take part in a "Who Knows Mom Best?" quiz. All the relatives assume it is a special segment my mom has arranged to officially introduce me to everyone as her biological daughter. The first question is about my mom's favorite flower. I write down "lily", the flower she always keeps in her study. Megan, on the other hand, holds up her board and says, "White camellia. Mom said it was the first flower Dad ever gave her." My mom nods and says, "Megan remembers it better than anyone." The second question asks what my mom takes for her stomach problems. I write down the medication her doctor prescribed. Megan writes down the soup my brother, Josh Fraser, makes. "Kathy, you've been back for three years, and you didn't even know Mom hates taking medicine?" Josh mocks. After that, Megan correctly answers questions about my mom's usual size, the opera she listens to when she can't sleep, and her favorite perfume. One by one, the lights beside me—symbols of our supposed bond—go out. The last question is who my mom wants to give the family heirloom brooch to. Megan doesn't write a word. Instead, she slips her arm through my mom's and says, "Mom would never let me lose." As laughter fills the room, my mom personally lights the final light for Megan. Then she looks at me and says, "Just because you're my flesh and blood doesn't mean you truly know me. We'll talk about acknowledging you as my daughter another time." I walk straight off the stage and send my lawyer, Peter Richmond, a message. "Proceed as planned. I'm leaving tonight."

My coworker, Linda Sullivan, loved taking advantage of people. She borrowed my electric scooter for an urgent errand. When she finally returned it, it wouldn’t run. I brought it in for repairs and the mechanic told me someone had swapped the battery. I stormed straight back into the office to confront Linda, but before I could finish laying out what happened, she turned the tables on me. "I switched your battery?” Linda shrieked, “Where's your proof? Show me some real proof right now, or I'm suing you for slander!" What she didn't know was that my original battery was already defective. If she refused to give it back to me, whatever happened next would be entirely on her.

When I was six, my older brother, Garrett Johnston, died in an accident. Not long after, Dad finds a stray kitten with a marking on its wrist that matches Garrett's birthmark. From that day on, the cat becomes my brother. Dad takes down my desk to make room for a luxury litter box, leaving me to do my homework on the dining table. He tears down our bunk bed and replaces it with a cat tree, banishing me to a bed made of stacked cardboard boxes on the balcony. Dad spares no expense on premium cat food, treats, clothes, and toys, while I get nothing at all. Finally, I pluck up the courage to ask Dad, "Garrett and I used to share everything. How come he gets it all now?" Dad just snaps at me. "Do you have any idea how hard Garrett worked to come back to me? He's just a cat now! Why are you still fighting with him?" But Dad, why are you crying again when I listen to you and stop fighting with Garrett?

My sister's graduation party was held on June 25th, the same day SAT scores were released. A banner hung across the hotel ballroom reading, ‘Congratulations to Bria Sumner, ranked 8th in the district, on her admission to Graymont Preparatory!’ The room was done up with balloons and fresh flowers, and Dad had ordered a custom cake with ‘The Sky's the Limit’ piped across the top in buttercream. I was sitting on a chair in the corner when my phone lit up. It was a notification from the College Board. I had scored a 1,580, placing me in the 99th percentile statewide. I silently turned the phone face down on the table. My uncle, seated next to me, slapped his forehead. "Paige, didn't you take your SATs this year too?" Mom lifted her glass and answered for me with a laugh, "Oh, her? She's still got a ways to go. Her test isn't until next year." My fork stopped midway to my mouth. I had spent months studying for the SATs on my own, diligently working through the vocabulary, reading, math, and essay sections. I set my own alarm on test day, called my own cab to the testing center, and came home to an empty house afterward. Mom had only sent me one message that day. Mom: [Get up early tomorrow. We need to book the venue for Bria's party.] I lowered my head and pushed the food on my plate around. I had lost my appetite. That night, I sat alone in my room, opened the college applications portal, and entered the farthest university I could find as my first choice. The university was 808 miles away from home.

It was my first day taking over the branch office, and to get an honest read on the place before anyone put on a show for me, I'd left my assistant behind. In the elevator, I noticed a female coworker struggling with an armload of supply boxes, unable to free a hand. I reached over and pressed her floor for her. I hadn't even pulled my arm back when the man beside her smacked my hand away. "Where do you think you're putting your hands? Just because she's a woman, you figure you can lean in on her?" The woman flinched, and she lowered her voice, pleading, "Honey, are you out of your mind? He was just helping me." The man shot her a vicious glare and grabbed my collar. "Helping you? Sweet-talking my wife right in front of me. God knows what you get up to behind my back." I frowned and tried to reason with him. "Sir, I'd appreciate a little respect. I'm new here, and..." "New, huh?" He cut me off with a sneer. "First day on the job and you've already got the nerve to seduce my wife? You think I'm stupid?" The elevator reached our floor, and I had no interest in dragging this out any further. I turned to leave. He must have mistaken it for guilt, because he seized my collar again and roared, "Trying to run after you started something? Guys like you, sponging off women to get ahead, don't belong in this company. You're fired, effective immediately."

During a viral family mediation livestream, the notoriously difficult Dolores Bishop appeared on camera clutching her beloved toy poodle, Buddy, who was foaming at the mouth and suffering violent seizures every night. Convinced her daughter-in-law cursed the dog to death, Dolores demanded half a million dollars in emotional damages. The chat erupted with criticism, calling her a shameless bully trying to extort her own family. But after reviewing Buddy's test results, renowned veterinarian Dr. Alex Warren delivered a devastating diagnosis: irreversible neurological damage. The only humane option was euthanasia before the seizures became even more agonizing. Just as everyone accepts there's no hope, I heard Buddy's desperate voice. "Don't kill me! Please, Grandma, save me! I'm not sick! Every night that chubby three-year-old grandson uses me like a mop, dragging me across the floor after spilling peppermint oil everywhere. It burns so badly I can't stop convulsing!" My hand jerked, nearly shattering the teacup I'd just poured. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to Dolores. "Mrs. Bishop, is your grandson carrying a full bottle of peppermint oil in his pocket?"

My mother, Yvonne Scott, is a maternal health specialist who has helped countless women safely deliver healthy babies. Her delivery with my older brother goes smoothly, but she suffers a difficult labor with me. After everything she endures to bring me into the world, I'm diagnosed with autism at the age of six. Dad can't accept it, so he leaves her. Mom blames me for derailing her career and destroying her marriage. Even as a kid, I can always see the resentment in her eyes. Over the next two years, she loses me twice. The third time, I watch her burn every trace of my existence. That's why I choose to leave home. 20 years later, I become a child psychologist specializing in autism and work as a special education specialist at Haverly's most prestigious school for children with autism. The school requires every incoming student to attend a one-on-one introductory session before the new term begins. When I spot Yvonne arriving with her grandson, my heart drops.

My mom, Martha Sanders, works as a housekeeper for my girlfriend's family. On the day we make our relationship official, my girlfriend, Yara Quinn, takes me home to meet her family. My mom brought out a plate of steamed jumbo shrimp. But Yara's mother, Wendy Slade, slams the table and jabs a finger at my mom's forehead. She yells, "You ungrateful leech! The second your son shows up, you start serving him the good stuff. How shameless can you be, you bitch?" I start to stand up to stop Wendy, but Yara kicks me under the table. She speaks before I can. "Just let it go. Don't upset my mom." Then she orders my mom, "Martha, give the shrimp to Lucky." Lucky is their family dog. I stare at the face I thought I knew and hear the coldness in her voice. Suddenly, I feel like everything we have isn't as important as I thought.

My best friend, Nicole Reed, likes joking around. At my wedding, she takes the microphone to give her speech as my maid of honor. "I'm so happy for her! She had some little procedure at the gynecologist's just last month. Honestly, I was starting to think that she'd never find a husband! "Oh, come on, guys! I'm just messing with her. You know I can't resist a joke. Don't read too much into it!" In my previous life, I break down in tears and explain that I had an ovarian cyst removed. But Nicole just doubles over laughing. "Oh, right! So you needed some other man to sign off on the procedure? Okay, I get it now! "I'm kidding! Why are you getting so worked up?" Her words send my husband's conservative family into a fury. My husband, Theodore Grant, slaps me and calls off the wedding in front of everyone. In the end, I fall into depression and take my own life. Now I watch Nicole standing onstage again, hamming it up for the crowd. She covers her mouth, puts on an innocent act, and says, "Don't get the wrong idea…" I grab my furious husband by the arm and stop him. Then, I calmly hold the microphone out to Nicole. "Don't stop. Keep going." I want to see how many jokes she can crack when the truth comes out, and whether she can still laugh her way out of it.

When I receive a summons in the divorce proceedings from my wife, Cora Moore, for the seventh time, I'm having cheese fondue at a restaurant with our daughter, Giselle Moore. The summons appears in front of both of us at the exact same moment. I force a smile and reassure her. "Sweetheart, just hang in there a little longer. This time, I'll definitely win custody of you!" Giselle falls silent for a moment before asking, "Daddy, how much are you planning to sell me for before you'll finally be happy?" I'm taken aback. Before I can say a word, she pulls out a divorce agreement from her backpack and hands it to me. "I know you've been fighting Mommy for me just to extort more money from her. I wrote this agreement on Mommy's behalf. Can you please sign it? "Mommy has it so hard. I wish you'd stop making things difficult for her." The agreement is handwritten by her. It allocates one million dollars to me in the division of assets. At the bottom, a note is added in her childish handwriting. "After accepting the money, you're not allowed to disturb Mommy, Cal, and me from living happily ever after!" Callum Scott is the man Cora has been cheating on me with for the last five years. All of a sudden, I'm filled with the overwhelming urge to laugh. For five long years, I've held my ground against pressure from all sides, refusing to sign the divorce agreement because I want custody of Giselle. To that end, I'm even willing to leave with nothing to my name. However, the daughter I've raised for eight years has come here to help her mother divorce me.

I owned a taco shop for twenty years. The entire street was crowded because of my shop. After the SATs were over, I wanted to give a 20% discount to the seniors who were graduating on my new taco flavor, but my meat supplier sent me a notice. [Due to the high temperatures, the cost of transporting frozen goods has increased. Effective today, the price of raw ingredients will increase by 30%.] [Items are available on a first-come, first-served basis due to limited quantities.] It was the third time he had increased the price this year. Immediately after, my landlord and vegetable supplier also increased their prices as though they had discussed this in advance. I was furious as I questioned them, but all of them gave me the same answer. “Your profit on your new taco menu is high! We also need to benefit!” I was trembling in anger. I went back to my hometown and sent them a group text message. [From now on, I don’t need you to supply any materials to me. I also won’t be renting the place anymore!]

While we're shopping for college supplies, my younger brother, Reuben Whitaker, picks up a limited-edition gaming bedding set and grins at Mom. She doesn't even glance at the price before putting it in the cart. When it's my turn, I barely pick up a charcoal-gray bedding set when my older sister, Cheryl Whitaker, frowns. "Garrett, why do you always choose such gloomy colors? You need to be more upbeat like Reuben," she scolds. My childhood friend, Phoebe Thorpe, smiles as well. "No one at the dorm knows you anyway, so buying something new will be a waste," she says. Reuben glances at the sheets in my hands and quietly suggests, "Garrett, why don't you use my old set? You never cared about things like that anyway." Mom immediately nods in agreement. "Garrett, you don't need new sheets. Besides, putting two sons through college isn't easy." My grip slowly tightens around the set. I remember Reuben's old bedding. The corners are covered in pills, and the fabric is stained with soda he spills during his late-night gaming sessions. It has always been this way. I get the designer sneakers he no longer wants, the backpacks he's grown tired of, and the bedroom he doesn't like. If I don't complain or fight him for anything, my turn will eventually come. At least that's what I think. But even after 18 years, their only response is, "You never cared about things like that anyway." At the register, I watch Mom pay for Reuben's things one by one before casually tossing my charcoal-gray sheets back onto the shelf. It's then that my lips curl into a smile. As it turns out, no one has ever bothered to remember what I like. I pick up the charcoal-gray sheets again. This time, I won't put them back.

After the SAT, Mom and Dad give Henry Simpson, my brother, a Rolex. I, on the other hand, receive nothing but the missing admission ticket. Dad says, "I found your admission ticket under the couch last night, Gavin. It's too bad you couldn't take the SAT with Henry this year, but don't beat yourself up because of this. You should just treat this admission ticket as a lesson to be more careful when you retake the SAT next year." The admission ticket before me carries a subtle scent, a smell that belongs exclusively to Mom and Dad's closet. Dad continues, "You have nothing to worry about, Gavin. I'll give you a watch too once you retake the SAT next year and get accepted into a good university." I laugh under my breath in disbelief. They are telling me to retake the SAT, not knowing that I have already received guaranteed admission to Crestvale University. I only registered for the SAT this time to accompany Henry and go through the motions so that he wouldn't feel insecure or mess up his test scores. If Mom and Dad are willing to hide my admission ticket for Henry's sake, then I no longer care about the so-called family bond between us.

After being rushed to the hospital and brought back from another relapse, I vaguely heard my family arguing. "This is already the second time this month. When will it end?! Why isn't he dead yet?!" "Mom, don't say that! I've decided, I'll start working right after graduation to earn money!" My dad scolded my older brother, "But you have such good grades. You've already secured a spot for postgraduate studies. You should keep studying, let us take care of the money!" I lay on the bed, crying silently. After three years of being tormented by illness, I couldn't keep going anymore. This time, I chose to let go.

I'm Julian Johnson, and I love cake. My mommy, Charlotte Davis, brings me a small cake every day after work. My daddy, Peter Johnson, buys a full set of ovens and baking tools. For my sake, he then patiently learns how to bake cakes. I use to think I'm the luckiest kid in the world. That is, until the day my parents get divorced, and the man who comes to pick up Mommy turns out to be the bakery owner, Larry Patterson. Daddy suddenly whips around and glares at me with bloodshot eyes. "This is all your fault! If it weren't for you and your constant cake cravings, your mother never would've had an affair!" He stretches out his burn-scarred hands and shrieks hysterically, "My hands have never been free of wounds, all because I kept making cakes for you. But how do you two repay me? You're both convinced that whatever comes from outside tastes better!" Daddy strikes me hard with the baking tray. I bite my lip tightly, not daring to cry out. That night, Daddy brings home a little boy, Dustin Decker. Despite the pain racking my body, I drop to my knees and plead for Daddy to forgive me. "Daddy, I'm sorry. Please don't abandon me. I promise I'll never eat cake again!" Daddy slaps me several times in fury. Then, still not satisfied, he throws me into the large oven. "Don't call me that! I'm not your father! If you love cake so much, then stay in there and think about what you've done! You and your tramp of a mother both deserve to die!" After Daddy slams the door and leaves, Dustin skips cheerfully over to the oven and smugly presses the switch. "From now on, your daddy is mine!" The oven starts up. The temperature climbs around me, and yet I smile. Maybe this is for the best. At least Daddy can finally be happy now.

“Mr. Mike Atkinson, the payment on your loan is past due.” The collection agent spoke in a flat voice, as though she were reading out just another routine notice. However, I had never taken out a loan in my life. After pressing her for details, I learned that my parents had used my personal information and credit history to take out a loan in my name for my younger brother. They had forged my signature on every document. I did not immediately drive back to my parents’ house and confront them. I left the family group chat. I returned to my small apartment and spent a long time thinking about what to do. When I finally called home, my mother burst into tears and berated me. “You’re his older brother. What’s wrong with taking on a little debt for him?” I ended the call, switched my phone to silent mode, and stared out at the night. I had nothing more to say to her.

My daughter went missing three years ago, and everyone assumed she was dead. Then came a national writing contest. An essay grader dialed 911 with trembling hands. A contestant had written a single chilling message inside their essay: [My mother has kept me locked in her basement for three years. This is my only chance to call for help.] And the specific home address was listed in it. When the police kicked my front door off its hinges, I was sitting on the couch watching TV. They rushed past me and found a girl trapped behind a heavy wooden door leading underground. However, that girl wasn't my daughter. My house doesn't even have a basement.

It's been three years since I got married, and life's just been getting better and better. My company is flourishing, and my wife is a successful career woman. However, I have a friend from my college days who has already sabotaged a few families among our friend group. He can't bear to see others doing better than him. One day, during a gathering with friends, he slung his arm over my shoulder and said earnestly, "Alan, look at you. After you got married, you lost all freedom. You now live like a simp. Can you still call yourself a man? I've booked a private room somewhere fun tonight, and no one's allowed to leave! Let's have a blast and party all night!" I swallowed my discomfort and went along with them, only to find out what he meant by "having a blast" was hiring some professional ladies. And he even dragged me along to try my luck at gambling.