Killing Them With Their Own Pennies

When I opened my eyes again, the blue light of my laptop was searing into my retinas. I was back. Back on the day of the interview that would change everything.

In the next room, my older sister, Monica, was waiting for the kidney transplant we couldnt afford. My mothers solution? Obsessive, pathological "frugality."

I looked at the bottles of expensive, life-sustaining specialty meds sitting on the desk. A cold laugh bubbled up in my throat. Without a second thought, I swept them all into the trash can.

"Monica, taking these is just flushing money down the toilet," I called out, my voice dripping with a mockery she wouldn't yet understand. "Doesn't Mom always say that waste is a sin?"

Maybe she should just drink more hot water. If her wealthy husbandthe one who treated her like a burdensaw how much she was "saving" the family, Im sure hed finally give her the gold star she craved.

My mother, Lola, was a woman who had carved the word "frugal" into her very soul, even if it meant carving away our humanity to do it.

Growing up, I was a ghost in hand-me-downs, wearing Monicas threadbare rags until they literally fell apart. I remember a fever I had when I was tena heat so intense I thought my brain would melt. Lola refused to buy Tylenol. Instead, she forced me to drink a bowl of fermented mung bean soup that had gone sour three days prior.

"It clears the heat," she had snapped, while I gagged on the mold.

In my past life, I had fought my way to the final round of interviews for a senior analyst position at a Global 500 firm. A seven-figure salary. My ticket out of this hellhole. I had begged Lola not to touch anything, not to make a sound.

But at the climax of the interview, the screen went black. The router died.

I had sprinted out of my room only to find Lola standing in the dark, her hand on the main circuit breaker.

"Keeping the lights on at this hour is a waste of money," shed said, her voice full of smug righteousness. "I did the math. If we shut everything down at night, we save forty cents a month!"

For forty cents, I lost a million-dollar career.

Later, when Monicas condition worsened, Lola didn't ask her "golden boy" son or her "breadwinner" husband for help. She forced me into an unregulated industrial sweatshop, working double shifts in toxic conditions to pay for Monicas bills.

Even on my deathbed in that life, my father and brother were still berating me.

"You couldn't even land a corporate job," theyd sneered. "Youre a useless drain on resources. After all the money your mother saved to raise you!"

The screen went black.

I bolted upright in my chair, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I knew that sound. I would know it in my grave. The sharp, metallic clack of the breaker being flipped. In my previous life, that one sound had dismantled twenty-six years of blood, sweat, and ambition.

I threw open my bedroom door and stormed into the living room.

In the shadows, illuminated only by the sickly orange glow of the streetlights outside, Lola stood by the electrical panel. She had a look of profound self-satisfaction on her face, her fingers moving as she tallied her "savings."

She heard me and turned, her voice a sharp whisper. "What are you doing out of bed? And why was that black box in your room glowing? Those lights, blinking all night... do you have any idea what that does to the electric bill?"

"Im saving us a fortune tonight, Andrea! At least thirty cents!"

I stared at her face, twisted by the petty thrill of her calculations.

Memories rushed back. Being seven years old, burning with a 104-degree fever. She wouldn't spend twenty dollars on a clinic visit because she wanted that money for her Saturday poker game. Shed pumped me full of that spoiled soup instead. Id spent two weeks drifting in and out of consciousness, nearly brain-dead.

In middle school, I never had a new coat. I wore Monicas old uniforms, even when the seams burst. When I complained that the kids laughed at me, she just threw a needle and some mismatched thread at me. "Fix it. Stop being vain. Vanity is expensive."

I felt the metallic taste of rage in the back of my throat. I didn't scream. I didn't beg.

I walked straight past her, shoved her aside with a shoulder, and slammed the breaker back up.

Lola gasped, her voice rising into a screech. "Andrea! You wasteful brat! What are you doing?"

I didn't answer. I stood in front of the panel like a shield. I pulled out my phone and instantly toggled my personal hotspot. I had already paid for an unlimited data plan this time. The laptop reconnected in seconds.

Ten seconds left to submit my final assessment.

I clicked 'Submit' and watched the loading bar crawl.

Submission Successful.

The moment those words appeared, the tension left my body so fast I nearly collapsed.

Lola was still raving behind me. "That computer is a vampire! It sucks the money right out of my pocket! I raised you, and this is how you repay me? By wasting electricity?"

My phone vibrated. A call from Monica.

I hit 'Accept' and turned on the speakerphone.

"Andrea," Monicas voice came through, weak but demanding. "Im out of those specialty pills the doctor ordered. I need you to Venmo me eight hundred dollars right now so I can pick up the next batch."

Lola pounced, leaning into the phone. "Did you hear that? Your sister is sick! Give her the money! You have that scholarship money saved up, don't you? Give it to her!"

I looked at Lolas entitled face. That scholarship money? She had already "borrowed" most of it under the guise of "saving for my tuition," only to turn around and buy my lazy brother, Sean, a high-end gaming rig.

I walked over to the coffee table. There were three bottles of Monicas medication sitting therebottles shed left behind while visiting.

I picked them up. I met Lolas eyes.

Twist. Pop. Pour.

The white pills cascaded into the trash can, buried under coffee grounds and eggshells.

Lolas eyes nearly bulged out of her head. She shrieked, lunging for the bin. "Are you insane? Thats eight hundred dollars of medicine!"

I kicked the trash can away from her.

I leaned toward the phone, my voice calm and terrifyingly sweet. "Monica, why waste money on pills? Mom taught us that frugality is a virtue, remember?"

"Your kidney issue is just 'toxins' in your system. Mom says the best way to clear toxins is to drink scalding hot water and sweat it out. Its free. If your rich husband finds out how much money youre saving the family, Im sure hell finally call you a 'good wife.'"

The line went dead as Monica hung up, likely in a fit of rage.

Lola raised her hand to backhand me. I caught her wrist mid-air, squeezing until she winced.

"Mom, those pills are a scam. The hospital just wants your money. Weren't you the one who said doctors are all liars? Im just trying to save you some cash."

Lola trembled, her mouth hanging open. I had used her own twisted logic to trap her. She had no move left.

I turned and went back into my room, locking the door.

The countdown to my escape had officially begun.

The next day was the final pressure test. The last hurdle between me and the seven-figure offer.

I knew they wouldn't let me work in peace. Sure enough, early in the morning, the pounding on my door started. My father, George, was roaring from the hallway.

"Andrea! Get out here! Your sister is dying and youre throwing her meds away? Youve lost your damn mind!"

I pulled on my high-end noise-canceling headphonessomething Id saved up for months to buy specifically for this moment.

The morning sun hit my desk, and for a second, I thought of the boy from college. My first love. The one Lola ruined. He had saved up for a month, eating ramen every night, just to buy me a simple floral dress for our anniversary. It was the first time in twenty years someone had looked at me and seen a girl worth cherishing.

Lola had found out. She decided he was a "spendthrift" and a "distraction." She had marched into the campus dining hall, thrown the dress in his face, and screamed at him to give her the cash equivalent.

"You're poor! You can't afford to be romantic!" shed yelled in front of everyone. "Two hundred dollars buys a lot of groceries! Give me the money!"

My first love, my dignityshed ground them both into the dirt while she counted those twenty-dollar bills with a smirk.

I pushed the memory down.

The pounding on the door stopped. Then, the internet died.

I heard Sean laughing outside. "No wifi, no test, Andy! Get out here and start earning your keep!"

I didn't even blink. I had a second burner phone acting as a secondary hotspot. The interface didn't even lag.

On the screen, a panel of executives looked at me. "Ms. Miller, if the firm faced extreme capital pressure, how would you approach cost-cutting without sacrificing core integrity?"

The question was a gift.

I had spent six months in a literal sweatshop in my past life. I had seen the most brutal forms of exploitation, the most pathological ways to squeeze a penny. I spoke fluently, translating those horrific "black factory" tactics into sophisticated, compliant actuarial models.

The executives were nodding, enthralled.

As the interview reached its final minutes, the overhead light flickered and died. My laptop chimed: Low Battery.

My father had gone into the hallway and smashed the external meter for the apartment. He was willing to live in the dark just to sabotage me.

I watched the battery icon hit 1%. I slammed the 'Submit' button.

The "Success" screen flashed for a microsecond before the laptop died.

I took off my headphones and opened the door. George was standing there, his face purple. He swung his hand and caught me across the face. The force was enough to split my lip.

"Get dressed," he barked. "Tomorrow youre reporting to Big Sals plant. Five grand a month, room and board included. The checks go directly to my account."

Lola shoved a hospital bill under my nose. "Monicas dialysis is two thousand a day! Youre her sister! If you have to sell your blood to pay for this, youll do it! You owe her!"

I wiped the blood from my lip and looked at these people who claimed to be my parents.

"Fine," I said. "Whatever it takes to 'save' Monica. Ill go."

They froze. They hadn't expected me to fold so easily. Lolas face instantly shifted into a manipulative smile.

"Thats my girl. I knew youd do the right thing for the family."

That evening, a black Audi pulled up to the curb. My brother-in-law, Victora man who hated our familys poverty almost as much as he hated his wifes illnessdumped Monica at the door.

"Shes a money pit," he spat. "Im done. Were filing for divorce."

He peeled away before the door even closed. Monica collapsed in the hallway, sobbing. Lola, frantic, helped her inside and immediately called Big Sal.

Big Sal was a labor shark. He specialized in sending desperate people into the "toxic" zones of manufacturing plantsplaces where OSHA didn't exist and the air smelled like burning plastic.

The next morning, three hulking men with greasy hair and cheap suits were sitting in our living room. Big Sal flicked his cigarette ash onto our carpet, eyeing me.

"This skinny thing? She won't last a day in the high-heat zone."

Lola hovered around him, offering a desperate, toothy grin. "Shes tougher than she looks! Shes been a workhorse since she was five!"

Panic, cold and familiar, tried to rise in my chest. In my last life, I had spent three months in that 120-degree furnace. No masks, because the five-dollar deduction for safety gear was "too expensive" according to Lola. I had coughed up blood on the assembly line. When the factory dumped me at the hospital, Lola didn't pay the bill. Shed told me I was "useless" for getting sick and "wasting" a payout.

Now, she held the contract out to me. "Sign it, Andrea. Sal is giving us a thirty-thousand-dollar advance. Itll cover Monicas next round of treatment!"

Sean was in the corner, rubbing his hands together. "Mom, make sure I get eight hundred of that. Theres a new phone coming out."

George just puffed on his cigarette. "Its time you paid your debts, girl."

The men closed in on me. Lola grabbed my right hand, trying to force my thumb onto the ink pad.

The suffocating feeling of being trapped returned. But then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A specific, high-priority notification chime.

I wrenched my hand back and pulled the phone out.

The screen lit up with a formal offer letter from the Global 500 firm.

Base salary: 0-0.2 million. Signing bonus: $250k. Stock options included.

I kicked the coffee table over, the crash echoing through the small apartment.

I shoved the phone into Lolas face, my voice a raw, primal scream. "Look at this! Look at it! A million-dollar salary! A legal, high-end career!"

"And you... you were going to sell me to a sweatshop for thirty grand?"

The tears were coming now, twenty-six years of repressed agony pouring out. "When I was a kid, you gave me moldy soup to save thirty dollars. You stole my clothes. You ruined my life in college for two hundred bucks. Your 'frugality' was always a weapon you only used on me!"

I thought, for one foolish second, that the sheer scale of the million-dollar offer would make her pause.

Lola blinked. For a moment, a shadow of doubt crossed her eyes.

Then, she spat on my shoes.

"A million dollars? Thats 'make-believe' money, Andrea. Its a dream. Sals thirty thousand is real cash. Its right here in his briefcase."

"Youre a delusional brat. If your life can be traded to save your sisters, thats the best use for you. Its common sense. Its math!"

The sheer, impenetrable wall of her ignorance made me feel like I was drowning. My own mother had appraised my soul and decided it was worth less than a used car.

George and Sean moved toward me, ready to pin me down. Big Sal reached for his zip-ties.

Right as the shadow of the rope fell over me, I stopped crying.

I looked at Lola and laughed. It was a jagged, broken sound.

I pulled up a medical video I had bookmarked on my phone. An expert explaining "cost-effective treatment." I cranked the volume to the max.

"Mom, you love math, right? Let me help you calculate."

"The high-heat zone at Sals plant? A person loses ten pounds of sweat a day in there. The doctors say that extreme sweating is basically 'free dialysis.' It flushes the kidneys better than any machine."

I watched Lolas expression shift from anger to curiosity.

"If Monica goes to the plant, you save three thousand dollars a day in hospital fees. And you get the salary. Its a double win. Its pure profit."

Lolas eyes lit up. The biological urge to save her daughter was instantly overridden by the pathological urge to "get a deal."

"Profit..." she whispered.

She turned her head slowly to look at Monica, who was cowering on the sofa.

"Mom, no," Monica whimpered. "Ill die in there!"

Lola slapped her. Hard. "Shut up! You don't know the value of a dollar! The hospital is just bleeding us dry. This is a chance to detox for free and get paid! Wed be idiots to pass this up!"

Lola turned to Big Sal. "Change the name on the contract. Im not selling my younger daughter. Im giving you the older one."

Sal hesitated, looking at Monicas sickly frame.

Lola didn't wait. She grabbed the pen, scratched out my name, and scrawled Monicas. "Shes just a little sluggish! A little sweat will do her good!"

She dragged Monica up by the arm. Monica fought, but Sean and George stepped in, pinning her down. To them, it didn't matter who went, as long as the thirty thousand hit the table.

Lola clutched the stack of cash to her chest, her face creasing into a horrific, triumphant smile.

"See? I always find the best bargain for this family," she gloated.

Sal shrugged. Hed already paid. He signaled his men to haul Monica out. She screamed for our father to save her, but George was too busy counting his cut of the bills. Sean was already browsing phone specs on his laptop.

I watched them. I watched the ugly, naked greed.

While they were distracted by the scent of the money, I slipped into my room. I grabbed my pre-packed bagmy documents, my laptop, a few essentials.

I walked out the front door and didn't look back. I breathed in the humid morning air, leaving the cage I had lived in for twenty-six years.