Chapter 2: Blood, Bruises, and Breaking Free

"Hey, man... here."

My brother lowered his voice, looking secretive and nervous, like he was hiding something shameful. He kept trying to slip his straw into my hand.

He hunched over the table, glancing at our parents out of the corner of his eye, acting like this was just some harmless prank between brothers. But I knew better. I could almost smell the desperation on him, like he was scared to be found out and even more scared to lose.

I sneered in disgust and jerked my hand back, breaking free from his little trick.

His fingers barely brushed mine, and I snatched my hand away, shooting him a look sharp enough to cut. For once, I wasn’t playing along with his games.

With my parents watching expectantly, I unfolded my slip and handed it to them.

The silence stretched, just the ceiling fan rattling above us. I slapped the slip onto the table and pushed it toward my mom, meeting her eyes dead-on.

"Mom, Dad, I drew the dropout straw. Since this is my fate, I accept it."

My parents took the slip and immediately frowned.

My mom’s lips pinched tight, her brow furrowed like she’d bitten into a lemon. My dad ran a hand through his thinning hair, looking away.

I narrowed my eyes, staring at them, searching their faces.

The air felt thick with disappointment and something else—something like regret, but not for me. I could see it in their eyes: this wasn’t how they wanted it to go.

Why, when their precious youngest son won the right to study, did they actually look reluctant?

It was almost funny. They spent years saying they just wanted what was best for us, but now that their golden boy had his shot, they acted like it was a disaster.

"Danny, your grades aren’t as good as your brother’s. You sure you wanna keep this chance for yourself?" my mom suddenly asked, her tone probing but her eyes betraying a flicker of urgency.

Her voice was all gentle, but I could hear the panic just below the surface. She was hoping I’d just hand it back, make things easy for her.

I looked at my mom in disbelief, my heart turning cold.

I remembered every time she’d dismissed me, every time she’d sided with my brother. I could feel the chill spreading through my chest as the truth settled in. This was never about fairness.

In my previous life, my brother had pushed to swap straws with me. My parents saw it, but let it happen in silence.

They just watched, letting him bend the rules, and afterward pretended they’d done nothing wrong. I was left holding the guilt, like a hand-me-down coat that never fit.

Afterwards, I was morally blackmailed by the whole family, drained in every possible way, and they all acted like it was only right.

Every phone call, every family dinner—always the same script: “He’s your brother. Don’t you want him to do well?” I used to swallow it all, thinking I owed them something.

Now that I choose to drop out, they try to persuade my brother to give up instead.

It was a slap in the face, seeing how quickly they twisted things to keep my brother on top. Suddenly my sacrifice wasn’t good enough.

So from the start, was their plan always to send me to college—just so they could leech off me later?

It all clicked together. College was never for me—it was just an investment in someone to support my brother.

I almost wanted to laugh.

The absurdity of it all made my lips twitch. If I didn’t laugh, I’d scream.

Laugh at myself—how could I have missed something so obvious?

I was always the dutiful son, so desperate for a scrap of approval, I ignored what was right in front of me.

Ever since I was old enough to understand, I knew I was different from my brother.

The signs were always there. Different birthday cakes. Different rules. Even the way they looked at us—my brother could do no wrong, and I could do no right.

Every Christmas, my brother got a Christmas gift, while I could only watch him dance around with joy.

I remember sitting on the couch, hands tucked under my legs to keep from reaching for his presents, watching him rip into wrapping paper while my parents beamed at him. I learned early how to make myself small.

I begged my parents, just wanting a toy truck I’d wanted for ages.

I spent weeks circling it in the Sears catalog, dreaming of lining it up with the rest of my brother’s toys. It felt like the only thing in the world I wanted.

But their reply was always, "You’re grown up now, you need to be mature."

Their words always landed like a door slamming shut. "It’s time you learned to go without," my dad would say, as if I was already supposed to be the man of the house.

But I was still a kid back then, and I stubbornly asked for that toy truck again the next year.

I’d press my case, eyes wide, trying to hold back tears, hoping they’d see me for once. But nothing changed.

I even pointed at my brother, asking why he got one every year and I never did.

It wasn’t fair, and I finally said so. But instead of sympathy, all I got was anger.

In the end, my dad glared and slapped me, scolding me for being selfish and not knowing how to save money for the family.

His hand was heavy, his words even heavier. “We’re not made of money,” he barked, as if my needs were a threat to our whole existence.

My mom crossed her arms and snapped, "Don’t you know you’re the older brother?"

That line stuck with me, echoing in my head every time I saw my brother get something I wanted. Being the oldest meant you got the short end, every time.

After that, I didn’t dare ask again. I didn’t dare fight my brother for anything.

One hard lesson was enough. I learned to bite my tongue, to let things slide, to be invisible when it counted.

That slap made my face swell up, and my classmates laughed at me at school for a long time.

The bruise bloomed purple on my cheek. Kids in my class pointed and giggled, whispering about how my parents must’ve really hated me. I wore it like a brand.

I swallowed all the unfairness of my parents’ favoritism, learning to hide my needs—because I knew it was useless to voice them.

It was easier to go without than to ask and be refused. I started shrinking into myself, dreaming about escape instead of toys.

...

"My brother’s grades are good, I’m willing to give him the chance," my brother said, putting on a righteous face. His carefully rehearsed expression was so fake it made me sick.

He puffed out his chest, acting like a hero, but I saw the calculation in his eyes. It was all an act for our parents, the same routine we’d played for years.

From childhood until now, this was the first time he didn’t fight me for something, the first time he acted like he was giving me something precious.

Even his voice shook with false sincerity. He waited for our parents’ praise, but their silence stretched, awkward and cold.

Little did I know, behind this so-called kindness was actually a push into a bottomless pit.

It was never a gift, just a way to tie me down, to justify their demands for the rest of my life.

He knew his grades were hopeless, that he’d never make it by studying, so he wanted to rely on our parents’ favoritism and make me responsible for supporting him.

I could almost hear the gears turning in his head, planning out years of handouts and guilt trips.

And my dear parents? Clearly, they thought the same way.

Their expressions said it all: this was the plan all along.

If you’ve always favored one child, why would you ever change?

Favoritism is a habit, and habits die hard—especially when they’re easy.

The spoiled one stays spoiled.

No matter how old we got, the rules never changed.

How could I have been so stupid in my previous life?

I clenched my jaw, hating how much I’d let them walk all over me.

So this time, I patted my brother’s shoulder, sounding regretful but really mocking him.

I made sure my voice dripped with fake sympathy. “No need. Fate can’t be changed. I accept it—you do your best.”

He looked stunned, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and for once, he had nothing to say.