Story Interracial

On the highway, a chain-reaction crash happened out of nowhere. I was left with a fractured skull, barely hanging on. When my husband—who's a well-known respiratory specialist—showed up, he didn't even look at me. He rushed past, straight to his first love. She had nothing more than a scrape on her arm. I tried to call out for help, but he just turned and looked at me like I was being dramatic. "You're fine. Don't act like you're so fragile," he snapped, brushing me off like my pain didn't matter. At the hospital, things only got worse. He used his position to get every bit of attention, monopolizing the medical staff, and as my supposed sole family member, he signed the papers to abandon my treatment. "It's just a fractured skull," he said, sounding totally calm. "Save the woman in my arms first. She's a renowned painter. She's more important." As I started to lose consciousness, his muttered words cut through the fog, "You're better off dead. We don't want anyone knowing about Leona's drunk driving."

My roommate had a strange obsession with taking cold showers on the balcony. She claimed it helped detox her body and brightened her skin. I warned her, “You should be more mindful of your privacy.” However, she only laughed, accusing me of being jealous of her flawless figure. Then, disaster struck. Her shower photos were leaked online, and soon after, thugs showed up at our door, demanding to humiliate her. Instead of taking responsibility, she turned on me. “It’s her! She’s the shameless one showering on the balcony!” Betrayed and defenseless, I was dragged into the woods and left to die, my life snuffed out in humiliation and pain. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back on that fateful day—the day my roommate took her first cold shower on the balcony.

The day Yancy Shepherd died, Benedict Page poisoned our dinner. His eyes were wild, and bloodshot, as he watched me writhe in agony. There was a madness in his gaze, but worse was the hatred, a disgust so deep it twisted his face into something unrecognizable. "If it weren't for you forcing your way into our lives, Yancy wouldn’t have died from heartbreak. You ruined us! It’s all your fault!" A photo slipped from his trembling hand and landed at my feet—Yancy at twenty, looking radiant, her smile as bright as a blooming flower. I collapsed to the ground, my strength fading fast like a rose withering in the final grasp of winter. Helpless, I waited for the darkness to claim me, consumed by despair and bitter regret. Why hadn’t I listened to the system and killed him when I had the chance? But when I opened my eyes again, everything was different. I stood watching Benedict flee our engagement ceremony. My brother moved to chase after him, but I quietly raised a hand, stopping him. This time, things would be different.

I knew perfectly well that open flames were forbidden at a gas-leak scene, yet as a firefighter, I still backed my girlfriend's childhood friend when he insisted on lighting a cigarette "to calm his nerves." In my previous life, a sudden gas leak erupted during a gathering. Her childhood friend insisted on smoking to steady himself. I slapped the lighter out of his hand and yelled at him for trying to get us all killed. Humiliated, he ignored everyone's attempts to stop him and stormed outside—only to be crushed by an advertising board blown loose by the explosion's shockwave. Later, when I saved a child who had fallen from a building and was left hanging in midair myself, my girlfriend—my second-in-command—maliciously cut my safety rope. She stared at my corpse and said, "If you hadn't humiliated George in front of everyone, he wouldn't have died." When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that room thick with the stench of leaking gas.

Three years after our breakup, I ran into my ex-girlfriend, and she had her new boyfriend by her side. "Hey, isn't that Henry the expert?" Diego Stanley taunted with a smirk. "Three years post-breakup, and you're slumming it here playing with clay?" I furrowed my brow, ignored them, and carefully moved the Victorian-era porcelain musician figurine onto its preset base in the display case. When I wasn't biting, he reached out to grab the figurine from my arms. "What's this junk you're treating like gold? Let me take a look." Cynthia Wyatt frowned, her voice laced with that familiar arrogance. "Henry, I've given you three years to shape up, and you're still the same loser? Come on, hand over that clay doll to Diego. Don't kill the vibe. If you play nice, I might even reconsider our old engagement." As Diego's hand neared the figurine, I dodged quickly and barked, "Hands off! It's a historical artifact!" Diego got pissed off and shoved me hard. "Some flea market find, and you're acting all high and mighty?" In the ensuing scuffle, I lost my balance, and the figurine slipped from my grasp, crashing to the floor. That sealed their fate. This entitled pair was about to go bankrupt trying to fix it.

I drag my suitcase out of the airport and walk straight into a massive billboard. "Welcome back, Jennifer Palmer, the great love of Ivan Olsen's life." The entire Internet praises him for having waited faithfully for ten years. A star-struck reporter shoves a microphone in my face and asks, "Ms. Palmer, are you moved that Mr. Olsen has remained celibate for you all this time?" I blink in confusion at her question. "Who's Ivan?"

As soon as my husband sat at the dining table, he couldn't stop himself from talking. The humiliations of my school days had become his favorite entertainment, served up to his drinking buddies like appetizers. "Back then, she got her clothes torn off in the bathroom, beaten so badly she crawled on the ground like a dog, too terrified to make a sound. If it weren’t for my kindness—" That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him I wanted a divorce. He laughed it off, utterly unbothered. "Seriously? It’s just a joke! That was ages ago. You’re way too uptight—it’s just for a laugh, right?" For a laugh? Was I the only one with a past? Did he think he was untouchable? Maybe I should tell a few embarrassing stories about his precious childhood sweetheart. Fine. If it’s all about “fun,” I hoped his sweetheart found it equally hilarious when her turn came.

When my wife brought her lover home for the fifth time, I decided enough was enough. I said nothing, not a word of complaint or protest. Instead, I superglued the windows shut and locked the bedroom door from the outside. From the bedroom came the muffled sounds of her little escapade, breathless and feverish, carrying through the walls like a shameful melody no one asked to hear. Calmly, I sat in the living room, picked up the phone, and called my mother-in-law. "Jessie," I said, putting on my best tone of urgency, "it's bad—real bad! Your daughter's locked herself in the bedroom and says she's gonna end it all!"

My sister aims her camera at my face as she livestreams. She forces me to get on my knees before her as everyone in her class watches. Then, she tells me to lick her shoe clean. My parents know about her behavior but don't care how it affects me. Their indulgence only makes my sister's behavior worse. This is precisely what I want, though. If one wants to ruin someone, the first step is to turn her into a psycho!

I discover that I'm a homewrecker after dating my boyfriend for a decade. We're looking at marital homes when his wife seeks me out. She beats me up in public and rips my hair out, yet all he does is hurry to her after I've pushed her to the floor. Why? Because she's pregnant. Later, he gets a divorce and begs me to marry him. "I'm begging you, Madison. Forgive me this once."