Eighteen Again: And He's Out

The acrid smell of smoke choked Sarah Miller, her leg a searing agony as flames licked at her home.

Just moments ago, her husband, Rick, had shoved her down the stairs, breaking her leg, then watched calmly as the faulty wiring he ignored ignited their house.

Trapped and engulfed by the roaring fire, Sarah screamed his name, but no answer came.

He was gone, abandoning her for worthless papers, leaving her for dead in the inferno stoked by his own negligence and rage.

Twenty years of selfless support, of being his scapegoat and bankroll, all culminated in this cruel, final act.

The betrayal burned hotter than the flames.

How could the man she sacrificed everything for simply leave her to die, blaming her even in her last moments?

The injustice, the monumental waste of her life, consumed her.

Her bitter last thought: "I wish I' d never met Rick Peterson. I wish I could do it all over again, without him."

Then, darkness.

She awoke, not in a choking inferno, but in her childhood bedroom, sunlight streaming through familiar windows.

It was 1995.

She was eighteen again, at the cusp of meeting the man who would ruin her.

Her wish had come true.

This time, things would be different.

This time, Rick Peterson would feel the full force of a woman who finally chose herself.

The acrid smell of smoke burned Sarah Miller' s nostrils, yanking her from a haze of pain.

Her leg throbbed, a sharp, insistent agony from her ankle to her hip.

She tried to sit up, but the floorboards beneath her were hot.

Flames licked at the frayed edges of the old floral wallpaper in the hallway.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in her head.

"Rick!" she screamed, her voice raspy.

No answer.

Only the crackle of the fire, growing louder, hungrier.

The old house, their house for twenty miserable years, was eating itself.

And her with it.

She remembered the argument. Money, always money.

Rick' s latest brilliant idea, another scheme cooked up with Brenda Jenkins, his eternal high school flame, had soured.

"It' s your fault, Sarah!" he' d yelled, his face puce. "You' re a jinx! You don' t support me!"

"Support you?" she' d shot back, years of swallowed resentment finally boiling over. "I' ve supported your failures for two decades, Rick! I gave up everything!"

Her dream of community college, a small catering business, all sacrificed on the altar of his ego and his endless, half-baked ventures.

He' d shoved her. Not hard, but she' d been off-balance, near the top of the rickety basement stairs they never fixed.

The tumble was a blur of splintering wood and a sickening crack in her leg.

Then the smell of smoke, a different kind, electrical.

The faulty wiring Rick had promised to fix for months.

He' d come down, seen her crumpled at the bottom.

His eyes hadn' t held concern for her, only a frantic, wild look.

"The papers," he' d muttered, "the deal with Brenda, they' re in the office."

He' d scrambled back up, leaving her.

Abandoning her.

For some worthless documents, for the ghost of a chance with a woman who' d barely given him the time of day in twenty years.

The heat was unbearable now.

Black smoke billowed, choking her.

Twenty years.

Twenty years of being his scapegoat, his emotional punching bag, the one who quietly paid the bills his ventures couldn' t cover.

Twenty years of him mooning over Brenda, the one that got away, blaming Sarah for his inability to "win her back."

As if Brenda, with her perfectly manicured nails and predatory smile, would ever want a loser like Rick Peterson unless he had something she could use.

Sarah had been the crutch, the safety net, the one who absorbed his failures and propped up his fragile sense of self.

She thought of her own ambitions, gathering dust like the unsold inventory from his last failed business.

Unappreciated.

Invisible.

Until he needed someone to blame.

A burning beam crashed nearby, sending sparks flying.

This was it.

Her last thought, a bitter, fervent wish: I wish I' d never met Rick Peterson. I wish I could do it all over again, without him.

The flames surged, a wave of orange and black, and then, nothing.

Darkness.

Then, a dull ache in her head.

Sunlight, too bright, sliced through her eyelids.

Sarah groaned, trying to lift a hand to her face.

Her body felt...young. Less worn. The chronic ache in her back from years of stress and hard work was gone.

Her leg didn' t hurt.

She forced her eyes open.

She was in her childhood bedroom.

The faded band posters on the wall – Pearl Jam, Nirvana.

Her cluttered desk with high school textbooks.

The flowered quilt her mom had made.

It was 1995.

She knew it with a certainty that chilled her to the bone despite the summer heat drifting through the open window.

She sat bolt upright, her heart hammering.

1995.

She was eighteen again.

A recent high school graduate.

And, a cold dread washed over her, she was just at the beginning of her serious relationship with Rick Peterson.

The Rick who, in another life, would kill her through his rage and neglect.

Her wish. It had come true.

A wave of nausea hit her, followed by a dizzying, fierce surge of determination.

This time, things would be different.

This time, Sarah Miller would live for herself.

She would get her education. Start her business.

And Rick Peterson?

He would never, ever benefit from her again.

She' d see how well he fared without her, his constant, uncomplaining support system.

Without her to bail him out, to soothe his ego, to blame for his own pathetic shortcomings.

She remembered all those years, the small slights, the big betrayals.

Rick taking her savings for a \"sure thing\" that vanished.

His mother, Patty, with her endless complaints and demands, always expecting Sarah to cater to them, to be the dutiful, unpaid servant.

His father, Gary, subtly undermining Rick, then blaming Sarah when Rick inevitably failed.

His layabout brothers, Kevin and Kyle, always with their hands out.

They had all used her, bled her dry, emotionally and financially.

Rick was the worst, a black hole of need and narcissism.

The memory of the fire, the searing pain, Rick' s indifferent face as he chose his papers over her life, was branded into her new, young mind.

He hadn' t even called for help.

He' d just left her to die.

Trapped by a broken leg he caused, in a fire his negligence started.

No more.

Never again.

Sarah swung her young, healthy legs out of bed.

She had a life to reclaim.

And a loser to dump.

The linoleum floor of her parents' kitchen was cool under Sarah' s bare feet.

It was a small, tidy kitchen, a far cry from the dilapidated, poorly maintained house she' d died in.

The air smelled of coffee and her mom' s cinnamon rolls, a scent from a life she thought was lost forever.

She felt a pang of exhaustion, a deep weariness that settled in her bones, a residue from her previous life, or perhaps the shock of her return.

This simple, working-class home felt like a palace after the squalor Rick had dragged her into.

"You' re up early, sleepyhead," Debra Miller said, turning from the stove. Her mom' s smile was warm, her eyes, not yet etched with the deep worry lines Sarah remembered from later years, held only affection.

"You looked so tired last night. Thought you were coming down with something."

Debra placed a plate of golden-brown cinnamon rolls on the table.

"Eat up. You' re too thin. Need to put some meat on your bones, especially if you' re going to be running around all summer before college starts."

College. The word was a lifeline.

Sarah sat, a lump in her throat.

The simple care, the genuine concern – it was almost too much.

In her first life, after the initial years, Rick' s mother, Patty, had only ever looked at her with calculation or complaint.

"Thank you, Mom." Her voice was a little shaky.

Debra just patted her shoulder. "Of course, honey."

The screen door creaked open and Mark, her older brother, walked in, grabbing a roll.

"Morning. Dad' s already at the diner."

Jim and Debra co-owned a small, struggling local diner, the heart of their family' s income.

Mark, a mechanic, helped out whenever he could.

Then, the screen door creaked again.

Rick Peterson slouched in, his eyes immediately fixing on the cinnamon rolls.

He had that same entitled air, even at eighteen. The local high school football star, though his glory days were already fading.

Sarah watched him, a cold knot forming in her stomach.

This was the boy, the man, who would destroy her.

Not this time.

"Morning, Mrs. Miller, Mark," Rick said, his voice overly familiar. He reached for a roll.

Sarah' s hand shot out, not to stop him, but instinctively, a small, protective gesture towards the plate.

She said nothing.

Debra, ever hospitable, said, "Help yourself, Rick. Though Sarah needs them more, looking like a stiff breeze could blow her over."

Rick just grinned, stuffing half a roll into his mouth. "She' s always worrying, that one."

Sarah studied him. He was already showing signs of the man he' d become.

The slight paunch from too much beer and not enough discipline. The way he expected things to be handed to him.

She knew his background. His father, Gary, favored his older, more "successful" brother, Kyle, and constantly belittled Rick, fueling his insecurities.

His mother, Patty, was a whiner who enabled him.

A family of users, just like him.

They' d always seen Sarah as a means to an end, someone to prop Rick up.

Her own family wasn' t rich, but they were comfortable enough by Rust Belt standards.

The diner provided. They owned their small house.

Compared to Rick' s chaotic, grasping family, the Millers were stable.

In her first life, a young, naive Sarah, flattered by the attention of the former football hero, had fallen hard.

She' d shared her lunch money, helped with his homework, listened to his dreams, blind to the red flags.

She' d been his biggest cheerleader, his provider, even then.

She' d sneak him food from the diner, cover for him when he slacked off at the summer jobs he couldn' t keep.

"Sarah, you gonna finish that?" Rick asked, eyeing her untouched roll.

Before, she would have pushed it towards him with a smile.

Now, she picked it up and took a deliberate bite.

"Yes, Rick. I am."

Her voice was level, cool.

Rick looked surprised, then shrugged.

Debra glanced from Rick to Sarah, a small frown creasing her brow.

Mark, munching on his own roll, watched them with a new interest.

Even Chloe, Mark and Linda' s daughter, who in this timeline was just a toddler, though in Sarah' s memories was a young girl she' d often babysat, sacrificing precious study time, seemed to sense a shift.

In her first life, Linda, Mark' s wife, had often said, "Sarah, you' re too good to him. He doesn' t appreciate you."

Her family had seen it, even if they' d been too polite, or too resigned to small-town expectations, to say much beyond gentle warnings.

Her mother had worried about the talk if she broke up with the town' s golden boy.

"So, Rick," Mark said, wiping his mouth. "Still planning on that trip to the lake before you start at the tire factory?"

Rick puffed up a bit. "Yeah, gotta live it up before the grind."

Sarah knew that job wouldn' t last. None of them ever did.

He' d complain it was beneath him, that the foreman was an idiot, that he was destined for greater things.

Brenda Jenkins would be his excuse for many of those greater things.

Sarah finished her roll, stood up, and took her plate to the sink.

"I' m going to head into town, Mom. Need to pick up some applications from the community college."

The words hung in the air.

Rick choked on his coffee. "Community college? What for? I thought we were gonna... you know."

He meant, she knew, her getting a job at the diner full-time, supporting him while he "figured things out."

Debra looked surprised, then a slow smile spread across her face. "That' s a wonderful idea, honey."

Mark gave a low whistle. "Good for you, sis."

Sarah felt a warmth spread through her. Their support, so freely given.

She looked at Rick. His face was a mask of disbelief and dawning anger.

"But... what about us, Sarah?"

"There is no 'us,' Rick," she said, her voice clear and firm.

She walked out, leaving him sputtering in the kitchen, her family watching with wide eyes.

The first chain was broken.