Here I am, walking on soft, green grass. Except it's not really grass; it's made of money. I felt so happy, thinking, "All of this is mine!" I ran across the money fields until suddenly, my face landed in a puddle of water.
"Margaret! Wake up!" a loud voice called. An old man in his sixties, with wrinkles on his face and a calloused hand holding a tin pail, stood at my door, looking angry. "Who do you think you are? a princess? You can wake up anytime?" he yelled.
I just rubbed my sleepy eyes and wiped my wet face. Water from my hair dripped onto my old, ragged blanket. I crumpled it and threw it aside. I secretly pinched myself to stop crying, though I'd done it so many times before I'd lost count.
"You better do all the housework before I return from the fields!" the old man huffed angrily and walked away.
I went to our small kitchen and saw my grandma packing rolled eggs, meat, and rice into a lunchbox. She paused when she felt my presence and looked at me with guilty eyes. "Forgive your grandpa. He's a little uneasy when the harvest starts," she said softly, trying to comfort me.
I hugged her and forced a small smile. "I know. No worries, I'm fine. It's my fault I overslept." I stand a few inches taller than my grandma, but she still reached out and slapped my arm. "You're wet! Go change before you get sick."
The mist covered my old, spotty mirror. I wiped it with my dry hands. I usually avoid looking at myself there because I see a pathetic, ugly girl. In the barely clear reflection, I saw her again. Pathetic. My white hair, inherited from my grandpa, was dry and rustling. My features are plain—dark circles under my eyes, light freckles on my nose and cheeks, dry lips. I bit my lower lip and sighed. I should be thankful I'm still alive.
---
"The raffle draw is tonight, Margaret," Ricky, my favorite store clerk, reminded me as he punched a few grocery items into the system. I was staring at the big poster on the wall—a five million dollar raffle sponsored by a beverage company.
"I can barely pay for all this. How am I supposed to buy a ticket?" I muttered, glancing at my empty wallet.
Ricky, a cheerful and very gay teenager my age, raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to buy one. Just scan the QR code on any of their drinks, enter your details, and voilà!"
I crossed my arms, skeptical. "I don't have money for that."
He rolled his eyes and looked around. Then he reached into the return basket behind him and picked out an orange juice. "Here! This one's expired, but the QR code still works. I was saving it for myself, but I've scanned thousands already. I know the odds are slim, but you never know."
Already halfway home across the fields, the hot, glaring sun was making me sweat profusely. I remembered the orange juice Ricky handed me. I opened it immediately and gulped it down, only to taste a bitter flavor and then vomit it out.
"What the hell?" I grimaced, looking at the bottle. "Oh, right. It's expired." I saw the QR code again. "Well, there's no harm in trying."
I fished out my battered phone, taped on all sides to hold it together, and scanned it.
----
My grandparents were in the living room while I was busy fixing the dishes. It was our usual night—they'd eat dinner and watch their favorite program on the TV, while I cleaned up after them. My grandpa never let my grandma work when I was around. He always said she's too old to do housework and that I'm strong enough to handle everything.
My grandparents aren't poor; they just live modestly. Our house is small but well-built. Grandpa works at the farm he owns, hiring workers to do most of the heavy labor. But here I am, slaving away, trying to earn my place in this house.
"Now, here is our awaited raffle draw for the five million dollars," the TV presenter's voice boomed through the house. I froze mid-rinse and quietly tiptoed toward the living room. I wasn't allowed to watch TV with them, but I couldn't resist this time.
"Wow, the lucky winner is surely someone special," my grandma mused softly, her eyes glued to the screen.
----
"Huh! People like that get lazy later in life and end up losing it all on a whim," my grandfather muttered dismissively, shaking his head.
Meanwhile, I was praying profusely behind them, my eyes squeezed shut. Just imagine what I could do with that money—get my own house, never have to work again. The thought made my heart race.
The TV presenter held up an envelope to the camera. "Inside here is the name of the luckiest person ever! And it is you.... Mar—"
I closed my eyes tighter, whispering a silent plea for my name to be called, when suddenly a loud gasp pierced the room. I froze, my heart pounding. When I opened my eyes, everything was pitch black.
"Damn blackout!" my grandpa cursed, his voice echoing in the darkness. "Margaret!"
Instantly, my instincts kicked in. I jumped to my feet, stretching out my hand to feel the walls. Like muscle memory, my fingers found the drawer where I kept the flashlight.
Who am I kidding? I could never win with a single entry.
----
I woke up before the rooster crowed, just like always, and before my grandpa could shower me again with a pail of icy water. After finishing all the housework, I silently slipped out the door, clutching a slice of bread in my hand. It was almost dusk, and I set out on my way to school.
School was the only place I felt free—away from the oppressive weight of my grandpa's commands. I loved it there. But walking an hour each way wasn't easy, especially since my grandpa refused to give me any allowance. If I wanted to go to school, I had to rely on whatever I could save from my own pocket money.
By the time I arrived at our local high school, I was already sweaty and tired. The kids from school looked at me, giggling and waving, their faces bright with excitement. It felt... strange. I was the top student—everyone knew that—but they'd never paid me this much attention before.
I sniffed myself quickly—no, I didn't smell bad—and straightened my frizzy hair. Am I too pale again? I bit my lips, trying to add some color. Embarrassment made me lower my head, and I was about to walk past when suddenly, loud screeches shattered the quiet.
Everyone fell silent. I turned around just in time to see two sleek black cars pulling up behind me. The doors opened, and a slender woman in a sharp black suit stepped out, followed by a few men in matching attire.
"Are you Margaret Anderson?" she asked, her voice crisp and commanding.
I froze. I looked around—was she talking to me? My heart pounded. I turned slowly, my eyes wide with confusion. Yes, it was really me.
Shit. Am I in trouble?