The Last Call Home Chapter 1

In the seventh year after being brought back home, I had already followed my parents' demands, married a man I didn't like, and raised a three-year-old daughter.

The fake heiress, one year older than me, still acted spoiled in my family's arms because she was "still young."

The dispute between the real and fake heiress had long become a thing of the past.

My home should have returned to peace.

So, when I was about to be beaten to death by my husband, I called my family.

"I'm dying. Can you come and pick Lily up, just like you picked me up back then?"

* * *

I knew I was finally dying, so I didn't call 911, but called my family instead.

Mom answered the phone.

She was getting her nails done, her tone a bit impatient: "What is it?"

I covered my constantly bleeding neck and said I was about to die, could they come and pick Lily up?

Lily is only three years old, sleeping upstairs, completely unaware of the mess downstairs.

My blood wouldn't stop, broken pieces of a red wine bottle were beside me, and my husband, after committing the violence, fell on the sofa and slept soundly.

"Ava, are you done yet? Putting on such a show every now and then!"

My brother Ethan snatched the phone and cursed at me, "You've been married for four years. Every time you contact us, it's either about divorce or saying you're about to be beaten to death. Are you really that miserable!"

I fell silent.

Don't know if I was numb from pain or lost too much blood, I felt a bit tired.

Recalling the past, I've actually been tired for many years.

Kidnapped at five, working like a slave in the mountains, never seeing the sun, tired until my back couldn't straighten.

Finally returned home at fifteen, facing the favored fake heiress, I lived carefully in the cracks, tired from secretly sobbing countless nights.

Forced to marry at eighteen, married to a rich second-generation scumbag who liked domestic violence. To avoid being beaten, I could only be a humble and virtuous wife, working hard without complaint to coax him happy.

Tired until every inch of my skin twitched.

At twenty, I had severe depression, relying entirely on my daughter Lily's smile to survive, staring into the abyss at the edge of the cliff every day, wanting to jump, but not daring to.

Tired until my ears rang and eyes dazzled, heart stinging.

Finally, at twenty-two, my carotid artery was cut by a piece of red wine bottle.

Suddenly not tired anymore, because I can finally die.

I answered Ethan: "This is not acting this time, I'm really dying. Can you come over immediately? I'm afraid of scaring Lily."

Actually, over so many years, I didn't "act" many times.

I only mentioned divorce to my family three times. They got annoyed, so I dared not mention it again.

I also only mentioned being injured to my family four times. They didn't believe it, so I stopped mentioning it.

From being brought back home until now, a total of seven years, seven calls for help.

Can't be considered many, right?

"Then go die. Once you're dead, we'll pick Lily up!"