"She's just jealous," my mother had sneered. "She can't stand to see Ryan do well. She stole his luck!"
The memory of my final moments flashed before my eyes. Vivian, standing over my broken body, spitting on my corpse.
"So what if you went to college? You think you're so high and mighty? If you hadn't stopped me, my son wouldn't be poor and alone! You deserved to die!"
And Ryan—the boy I tried to save—screaming as he brought the shovel down again and again.
"It's your fault! You ruined my life! You made me work like a dog! Go to hell!"
I died alone on that cold ridge, my soul lingering just long enough to watch my family weave a story about me eloping with some wild man and killing myself in shame.
I forced the bile back down my throat. The hatred burning in my chest was cold and hard as ice.
God had given me a second chance. This time, I wouldn't be their savior.
I would be a spectator.
I unclenched my fists and smoothed my expression into a mask of indifference. I would not save them again. I would sit back and watch them walk the path of destruction they so desperately craved.