My Parents, Their Pet, My Hell

The Great Depression had gnawed away at everything, leaving my family-my parents, Mark and Susan, and me, Sarah-scrambling for survival in a city choked with despair.

Then, they found Buddy, a stray golden retriever, shivering in an alley.

Suddenly, my meager cannery wages, meant for rent and food, were funneled into premium dog food, toys, and vet visits for him. I worked myself to exhaustion, only to watch them hand-feed Buddy roasted chicken from our good plates while I got watery potato soup.

He wasn't just a dog; a cold, malevolent intelligence lurked in his eyes, a mocking smirk reserved just for me. When I tried to evict him, he bit me, and my parents blamed me, tending to him while I bled, calling me a "jealous, worthless girl."

My world shattered when I was laid off, and an eviction notice arrived. Our only hope was a government housing lottery. But when I announced it, my parents only saw three spots: one for them, and one for Buddy.

"He's not a dog!" my mother screamed. "He's family! More family than you've ever been!"

They raced off, dragging Buddy, leaving me, weakened by hunger and infection, to chase after them. I watched, horrified, as an official marked three names: my father, my mother, and the dog.

They were ushered through the gate. They didn't look back as it locked, leaving me outside. Through the bars, Buddy looked at me and grinned.

I died alone, freezing in an alley.

Then, a sudden jolt. My eyes flew open. I was in my bed, the morning my parents found Buddy. My blood ran cold, hearing their cheerful voices.

I was back. And this time, I wouldn't die in the cold. I would find out why they chose a dog over their own daughter. And they would pay.

The air in the city was heavy and thick, smelling of despair. The Great Depression had its teeth in everything, squeezing the life out of jobs, savings, and hope. Our small apartment felt colder each day, the walls closing in. Survival was a prayer on everyone' s lips, a constant, gnawing hunger in our bellies.

In the middle of all this, my parents found a god.

It was a stray golden retriever they found shivering in an alley. They named him Buddy.

I was working a fourteen-hour shift at the cannery, my hands raw and my back aching, just to bring home enough money to keep the lights on. I' d walk in, drop the cash on the kitchen table, and watch my father, Mark, scoop it up.

"Good girl, Sarah," he'd say, but his eyes were already distant.

The money wasn't for the overdue rent or the dwindling food in our pantry. It was for Buddy.

They bought him premium dog food, the kind that came in fancy bags with pictures of happy, healthy dogs. They bought him toys, a plush bed, and paid for vet visits that cost more than I made in a week.

One evening, I came home so tired I could barely stand. The smell of roasted chicken filled the apartment, a luxury we hadn't had in months. My stomach growled, a painful, hopeful sound.

I walked into the kitchen. My mother, Susan, was on the floor, cooing as she hand-fed shredded chicken to Buddy. The dog was eating from one of our good plates.

"Mom?" I asked, my voice thin.

"Oh, Sarah, you're home," she said, not looking up. "Buddy was so hungry today, the poor thing."

The entire chicken was gone. All that was left for me was a pot of thin, watery potato soup on the stove. Buddy finished his meal, licked the plate clean, and then looked at me.

He wasn't just a dog. I saw it in his eyes. There was a cold, sharp intelligence there, a deep-seated malice. He lifted his lip just enough to show his teeth, a silent, mocking gesture that my parents never saw. It was a smirk. He was laughing at me.

This became our routine. Buddy ate first, the best of what little we had. I ate what was left. My parents' world shrank until it contained only him. Their conversations were about him, their worries were for him, their love was for him. I was just the machine that brought in the money.

One day, I couldn't take it anymore. While my parents were out, I opened the apartment door and tried to push Buddy out into the hallway.

"Get out," I hissed, my voice trembling with rage. "Just get out of here."

The dog didn't move. He just stared at me with those knowing, hateful eyes. I shoved him harder. He spun around with a speed that wasn't natural and sank his teeth into my arm.

Pain shot up to my shoulder. I screamed, stumbling back, clutching the wound. Blood soaked through the sleeve of my thin shirt.

Just then, my parents walked in. Susan shrieked, but not for me.

"Buddy! Oh, my poor baby, what did she do to you?"

She rushed to the dog, hugging him, checking him for injuries. My father stormed over to me, his face purple with rage.

"What did you do?" he yelled, his voice shaking. "You tried to hurt him, didn't you? You jealous, worthless girl!"

He pointed at my bleeding arm. "You probably deserved it."

They didn't clean my wound. They didn't even look at it. They took Buddy to the vet for a check-up, "just in case," and left me to tend to the deep, painful bite marks myself, using old rags and tap water. The infection set in a day later.

The economy got worse. The cannery laid off half its workers, and I was one of them. The eviction notice was the final blow. It was taped to our door, a stark white symbol of our complete failure. We had three days.

That same day, a flyer announced a lottery. The government had opened a new subsidized housing complex, a safe zone with food, shelter, and security. The spots were limited. Families had to register in person. It was our only chance.

I ran home, clutching the flyer, a flicker of hope in my chest. "Mom, Dad, look!"

I tried to explain the registration process, how we had to go together, how we needed to be early.

But they weren't listening. They were looking at Buddy.

"Three spots," my father muttered, his eyes wide. "One for me, one for your mother... and one for Buddy."

"What? No, Dad, it's for people," I said, my voice rising in panic. "They won't let a dog take a person's spot."

"He's not a dog!" Susan screamed, her face contorted. "He's family! He's more family than you've ever been!"

Before I could react, they grabbed their coats and the leash. They moved with a frantic, desperate energy, dragging Buddy with them. They ran out the door and down the street toward the registration center.

I chased after them, my infected arm throbbing, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I was slower, weakened by hunger and infection. By the time I got there, a massive crowd had already formed. I saw them up ahead, near the front gate.

An official was counting heads. I saw him point at my father, my mother, and then, unbelievably, at the dog. He marked three names down on his clipboard.

My parents were ushered through the gate. They didn't look back.

I pushed through the crowd, screaming their names. "Dad! Mom! Wait! It's me, Sarah!"

I reached the gate just as it was swinging shut. My father turned. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a shadow of the man who used to be my father. But it was gone in an instant.

He just stared at me, his face blank.

Then he turned and walked away.

The gate locked with a heavy, final click. I was on the outside. Through the bars, I saw them being led away. Buddy turned his head. He looked directly at me.

And he grinned. A wide, triumphant, human-like grin.

I was left behind, locked out of the last safe place on Earth. The nights grew colder. The hunger was a constant, gnawing fire in my gut. I died alone, curled up in a freezing alley, my last sight the uncaring grey sky.

Then, a sudden, violent jolt.

My eyes flew open. I was in my own bed, in our old apartment. Sunlight streamed through the dirty window. My arm didn't hurt. There was no bite mark.

The sound of my parents' cheerful voices drifted in from the living room.

"Look, Mark! He followed us all the way home! Can we keep him? Please?"

I heard the happy bark of a dog.

My blood ran cold. I knew that bark.

I looked at the calendar on the wall. It was the day. The day they found Buddy.

I was back.

And this time, I wouldn't be the one left to die in the cold. I would find out why. Why they chose a dog over their own daughter. And I would make sure they paid for it.

I got out of bed, my movements stiff. The memory of freezing to death was so real, I could still feel the phantom cold in my bones. I walked into the living room, and there he was.

Buddy. A beautiful, seemingly innocent golden retriever, wagging his tail and licking my mother' s hand. She was already captivated, her face soft with an adoration I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

"Isn't he just the sweetest thing, Sarah?" she asked, her voice full of joy.

I stared at the dog. He met my gaze, and for a split second, the happy-dog facade dropped. His eyes were cold, ancient, and filled with a chilling intelligence. The corner of his mouth twitched. It was the beginning of that smirk.

Then, just as quickly, he was a normal dog again, panting happily.

"Yeah," I said, my voice flat. "Sweet."

This time, I would watch. I would see everything.

In my first life, I had been too busy, too exhausted, too beaten down to notice the little things. Now, they were all I could see. I watched how Buddy never begged for food like a normal dog. He would simply sit by the table and stare at my parents until they felt an overwhelming urge to give him their own portions.

I saw how he would subtly position himself between me and my parents whenever I tried to have a conversation with them. He' d nudge their hands for a pet or let out a soft whine, drawing their attention away from me. It was masterful manipulation, and they were completely oblivious.

I needed to test him. I needed proof that what I was seeing was real.

One afternoon, I took a piece of dried jerky from our emergency stash. My parents were in the other room, mesmerized by some cheap television show. Buddy was lying on his plush bed, pretending to be asleep.

I walked over to the tall, rickety bookshelf in the corner. I placed the jerky on the very top shelf, tucked behind a thick book, completely out of sight and reach for any normal dog.

"There," I whispered to myself. "Let's see you get that."

I went to my room and left the door slightly ajar, watching the living room through the crack. For almost an hour, Buddy didn't move. I started to wonder if I had imagined it all, if grief and trauma had broken my mind.

Then, he lifted his head. He looked toward my parents' room, then toward my door. He knew I was watching. He stood up, stretched, and casually trotted over to the bookshelf.

What he did next made my heart stop.

He didn't jump. He didn't bark or whine. He looked at the bookshelf, tilting his head as if he were studying a complex puzzle. Then, he nudged the base of the shelf with his nose. Gently at first, then with more force.

The old bookshelf wobbled. He nudged it again, in a rhythmic, calculated way. It began to rock back and forth, the books on top starting to slide. He wasn't trying to knock it over. He was trying to dislodge one specific item.

The piece of jerky, vibrated by the movement, slid to the edge of the shelf and fell to the floor.

Buddy calmly picked it up, trotted back to his bed, and ate it. Then he looked directly at the crack in my door, directly at me, and I saw it again. The full, arrogant smirk. He knew that I knew.

A wave of nausea washed over me. This thing in our house was not a dog.

Just as I was processing this, a loud banging came from our front door. My father opened it to find our landlord, a fat, sweaty man named Mr. Henderson.

"Miller," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Bad news. The owner sold the building. New management is doubling the rent, effective the first of next month. Pay up or get out."

The news hit us like a physical blow. Double the rent? We could barely afford what we were paying now.

My mother started to cry. "What are we going to do, Mark? We'll be on the street!"

Panic seized them. The same panic I remembered from my first life. But this time, their first thought wasn't about our survival.

My father looked at Buddy, who had come to stand beside him. "Don't worry," he said, stroking the dog's head. "Whatever happens, we'll make sure Buddy is safe and comfortable."

My mother nodded through her tears. "Yes, of course. We have to protect him."

They didn't even look at me. In the face of impending homelessness, their primary concern was the creature that had invaded our lives.

They started frantically discussing what they could sell, what few possessions we had that might be worth something. I stood there, invisible to them, a ghost in my own home.

In my first life, their neglect had killed me. This time, I wouldn't let it.

As they panicked, a cold, clear plan formed in my mind. They had chosen their side. Now, I would choose mine. I would not be their workhorse, their provider, their forgotten daughter.

I would survive. And I would do it on my own.

I walked back to my room and quietly closed the door. I had to get out. But before I did, I had to expose that thing for what it was. I had to know what it wanted.

My new life depended on it.