Mom always said we were poor, so I had to learn to be frugal.

From as far back as I could remember, I’d never owned a single piece of new clothing. The few clothes I did have were hand-me-downs from Mom, stained with grease and grime.

I was the girl everyone at school remembered—the one whose clothes never fit, who kept to herself and who always sat near the trash cans. A complete outcast.

As I folded the clothes, loud voices echoed from outside my door. It was Mom and my brother, clearly speaking loudly on purpose so I could hear every word.

“We’re going back to our hometown tomorrow. Come on, let’s pick up your dad and then we’ll stop by the mall to buy you some new clothes. You’ll look so sharp and all the kids in the village will be jealous of you.”

Pleased with himself, my brother asked, “What about Alma? Is she coming with us?”

“No, she’s not coming. Why should we take her? Disobedient girls don’t deserve new clothes. She’d just become even more vain and selfish!”

The front door slammed shut with a loud bang.

I let out a bitter laugh. Every New Year’s, I was stuck wearing ill-fitting old sweaters and the autumn school uniform—bulky, ridiculous and completely inappropriate for winter.

If buying a warm winter coat was considered vanity, then what did it mean when my brother got several brand-name jackets at once?

That evening, as expected, my parents didn’t come home.

They were probably off enjoying a big meal together—a "special family dinner" at KFC or someplace similar.

Meanwhile, I was left with the only food in the house: a limp, leftover piece of cucumber. My stomach growled incessantly as I chugged tap water to quiet the hunger. I chewed the cucumber slowly, imagining it was a sizzling, juicy piece of fried chicken.

By the time I decided to shower and head to bed, they still weren’t back.

With the sound of water running, I tried to comfort myself. It didn’t matter. In this second chance at life, I’d already managed to escape the fate of being suffocated in a luggage compartment.

This time, my brother would be the one walking the path I had once endured. I couldn’t help but wonder how my parents would feel when that day came.

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice the bathroom door creak open until I turned around.

My dad’s enraged face filled my vision. Before I could react, the thin bamboo stick—its surface worn smooth from repeated use with saltwater—lashed across my bare skin.

“You’ve gotten bold, huh, Alma? Teaching your brother to take your place in the luggage compartment—what kind of sister does that?”

“Ah—!” I cried out as the pain seared through me.

Naked and humiliated, I scrambled around like a cornered rat, desperate to escape the blows.

“No, Dad! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Please, don’t hit me!”

But my dad was already too far gone, his eyes bloodshot with rage. The blows came harder and faster.

“Three days without a beating and you think you can defy me? You’re disobedient, selfish and you don’t care about your brother. Keep this up and I’ll beat you for three days straight!”

My brother clapped his hands in delight, cheering him on.

“Yes! Hit her! Harder, Dad, harder! She deserves it—this stupid girl is always asking for it!”

Scenes from the past flooded my mind—my father’s drunken rages, his merciless blows. And finally, the last memory: my lifeless body, kicked down the stairs by him, my death staged as an accident.

Why did they value my life so little? I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Reaching for the shower valve, I turned the hot water all the way up and grabbed the spray head. Boiling water, at least seventy or eighty degrees, shot straight at my dad’s face.

He screamed in agony, clutching his scalded skin. I seized the chance to grab my clothes and flee.

At the doorway, I ran into my mother. Her expression made me feel a mix of shame and heartbreak.

It was then that the last shred of hope I had for her dissolved completely.

I didn’t know what story she’d fed my dad about me behind my back, but as the fog of longing for their affection lifted, I saw things clearly for the first time.

The truth was, she and my father had always been on the same side. Whenever I disobeyed or failed to meet her expectations, they used violence to “teach me a lesson.”

That night, my dad managed, as always, to beat me senseless. 

For the longest time, I thought he lashed out because he resented me—a convenient outlet for his frustrations in life. But now, everything clicked. Without my mom feeding his anger with her whispers, how could a father so brutally punish his own flesh and blood?

It was all a calculated act: one played the villain and the other swooped in as the savior. After every slap from my dad, my mom would offer me a token of kindness—a piece of candy, a warm hug. It was all part of her ploy to keep me loyal, to ensure I’d serve this family like a beast of burden for the rest of my life.

I ran to my room and locked the door. My dad hammered on it with unrelenting fury, shouting, “Alma, you ungrateful brat! Scalding your own father with hot water? You’ve got no heart!” 

I shoved my flimsy desk against the door and stayed silent.  

As the adrenaline wore off, reality set in. I was just a kid, completely dependent on them for survival. Any defiance could end disastrously for me. But one thing was clear: this time around, I wouldn’t let them extinguish my spark. I wouldn’t sacrifice my life to light my brother’s path. 

Eventually, my dad gave up pounding the door. “Just wait till tomorrow,” he barked, his voice dripping with venom. “You’re dead meat, Alma.”

Next came my mom’s turn. She knocked softly and called out in a sugary tone, “Alma, are you awake? It’s me. Let me in, sweetheart.” 

The false concern in her voice made my skin crawl. I didn’t answer. She knocked a few more times, sighed heavily and left.  

The following morning, I woke early, determined to join them on the trip back to our hometown. Staying behind wasn’t an option—there was no way they’d pay for an extra month of utilities at the apartment or leave money for my meals.  

My brother was already up, bubbling with excitement as he zipped and unzipped the suitcase. He couldn’t wait to fill it with the new clothes our parents promised him.  

I stared at the suitcase, gripping my hands tightly. That cursed thing—my coffin in a past life. It had stolen my breath, my future.  

This time, the tables would turn. My brother would get a taste of the suffocating despair, the helplessness that had crushed me.  

My heart thundered as I watched him inch closer to the suitcase. My breath hitched, every fiber of my being praying for the moment to come.  

But just as his fingers brushed the zipper, a hard kick landed squarely on my back. I stumbled forward, crashing into the suitcase. Pain exploded in my head as I slammed against the edge.  

My father loomed over me, seething. Before I could react, he grabbed my hands, tied them behind my back and shoved one of his filthy socks into my mouth. “You think you can get away with what you did yesterday? Let’s see if you’ve got the guts to fight back now!”  

The last sliver of light disappeared as he zipped up the suitcase and snapped the lock shut.  

Tears streamed down my face, soaking the suffocating darkness. Was this how it would end again? Would I meet the same cruel fate—silenced and buried alive in this makeshift tomb?  

No. Not this time.  

I thrashed, kicked, pounded, but the suitcase didn’t budge. “Let me out!” I tried to scream through the sock, but it came out garbled.  

A vicious kick hit the suitcase. My father’s voice snarled, “Keep yelling and I’ll toss you down the stairs. See if I care.”

His words struck like a dagger. He wasn’t bluffing.  

My mother chimed in, her voice laced with reproach. “Alma, don’t blame us for favoring your brother. It’s your fault for being so ungrateful. You’ve never been as obedient or filial as he is.”  

She didn’t stop there. “You should be grateful we’re even bringing you along. We could’ve left you here alone, but we’re kind enough to take you back home with us for New Year’s. The least you can do is help your brother out more. Why can’t you understand how lucky you are to have parents like us?”  

Every word carved into me like a knife. Gratitude? For what? For turning me into a disposable tool? 

Tears burned my eyes, but not from fear. It was rage.  This wasn’t love. This wasn’t family. It was exploitation. In the suffocating darkness of the suitcase, I swore to myself: I would survive this and I would never let them control me again.

I clenched my fists, a wave of bitter irony washing over me. She could spout a hundred words, but that last sentence was the one that mattered most.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on her manipulations. I needed to conserve my oxygen and strength if I wanted to survive this.

Curled tightly in the cramped, pitch-black suitcase, I could feel the vibration of the bus beneath me as it rumbled toward the train station. Taking a deep breath, I banged my bound hands against the inside of the suitcase, desperate to attract attention.

It didn’t take long before someone noticed.

“Did you hear that? It sounded like someone knocking.”

“Yeah, I heard it too. What was that?”