Submit A Ticket Novels & Stories

The second day after I was transferred back to Los Angeles, I ran into someone I used to know on a street corner. She stepped right in front of me, eyes going wide. “Mia? Mia Rossi? Why would you come back now? Dante's marrying Camille at the cathedral in a week.” Dante was my first love, and also the youngest heir to a mafia dynasty on this side of the Atlantic. He'd made me a promise once: that he'd make the entire Moretti family kneel and welcome me in. We had a deal: the day he officially took over as Don would be the day he married me. But his family had other plans. They arranged a match for him: Camille, a princess from one of Sicily's five great families. Pure bloodline, the genuine article. At first, Dante swore up and down she meant nothing to him. Less than nothing. Then I started noticing how he looked at her. Softer every time. Like he was falling. One night, riding home after a shift at the bar, Camille's car came out of nowhere and took me down. The gas tank caught, and half the block reeked of burning rubber and scorched metal. I was pinned under the wreckage, blood seeping from the back of my skull down my neck, warm at first, then cold. Dante was the first one there. He beat the ambulance. The first thing he did was walk past me. He crouched down, lifted Camille out of the passenger seat, and didn't look at me once, just dropped a few words over his shoulder: “I already called an ambulance. Hang tight. Camille's had too much to drink. I need to get her home.” That was the moment I was done with him. Completely, finally done. While he was gone, I discharged myself. I bought the farthest plane ticket I could find that same night and left without looking back. Five years passed. “Mia, you have no idea.” The woman grabbed my wrist, dropping her voice. “Dante spent years turning half of Europe upside down looking for you. You came back at the right time. He still keeps a seat for you every month on his birthday. Camille's too proud for a lot of things,

My mom is an HR professional. She uses KPI to determine my entire life. "If you get into the top ten of your grade, you'll receive a B grade as well as a bonus of 500 dollars. If you can achieve a ranking at a state-level competition, you'll receive an A grade as well as a bonus of 1,000 dollars. Of course, if you can get into a top-tier university after scoring well in your SATs, I'll give you an S+ grade as well as a year-end bonus of ten thousand dollars!" I work my ass off in my studies and manage to earn the offer letter to a top-tier university. But that's when my mom puts a contract in front of me. "Congratulations on getting hired. From today onward, your allowances will be determined by the total of your base salary, KPI, as well as your full attendance award. "Your base salary is 500 dollars. It's to make sure that you won't starve to death, at the very least. In order to help you adapt to workplace stress in advance, I'll check on your progress randomly. If you don't meet my requirements, I'll deduct your salary." When I'm down with a fever of 104 degrees Fahrenheit, my mom deducts my full attendance award, claiming that my physical attributes aren't up to par. In order to catch up on my studies, I've completely forgotten to submit my weekly report to my mom. Because of that, she suspends my allowances. So, I have to sell my blood to a hospital behind her back just so I can survive. At the end of the school term, I show my mom my grades as well as the certificate to my scholarship, thinking that I'll be eligible for the highest KPI and the bonus. But that's when my mom tells me coldly, "The company has decided to give your S+ bonus to your younger brother as a form of investment. After all, he has more potential to achieve better results compared to you." As I gaze down at the 200-dollar consolation prize, I can't help but laugh. It turns out that I'm not even worthy of being recognized as a good employee in my mom's company.

My mom has been brainwashing me with her "quid pro quo" rule. Apparently, I must work hard in earning money just to get whatever I want. A round of doing the dishes earns me 50 cents. Mopping the floor once grants me one dollar. If I get a full score in my exams, that'll be five dollars. In order to buy a pair of white sneakers that I had had my eye on for a long time, I spent three months picking up trash from the streets. I lived like a maid who was paid on one-time services in this home. When I was a high school senior, I fainted during my homeroom period due to long periods of malnutrition. Even though my doctor suggested to my mom to pay attention to my nutrient intake, she began calculating the costs in front of my sick bed instead. "Your hospitalization costs 300 dollars. On top of that, you have a 200-dollar medical bill to settle. All of these costs will be reflected on your wedding gifts in the future, Emily." But when I turned my head, I saw a student sitting on the bed being fed chicken noodle soup by her own mother. Said mother was so heartbroken by her daughter's illness that she kept shedding tears as well. At that moment, my outlook on the world, that I had been maintaining for 18 long years, finally crumbled into dust. It turned out that not all children needed to work hard just to feel their parents' love. After getting discharged from the hospital and returning home, I finally sobered up the moment I noticed the sneakers that my younger brother, Arnold Baird, wore that cost several thousands of dollars. Then, I tore the family portrait into pieces and didn't hesitate to fill in the university that was located the furthest from home when it was time for me to submit my post-graduation details. Ten years later, my mom calls me on the phone. She starts crying to me how Arnold has swindled her out of her pension. Apparently, he's even sold the house just so he can elope with his girlfriend. Not only is my mom alone now, but she doesn't have a place to stay as well. I just smile as I throw her a piece of rag. "You want to live with me, huh? No problem. You'll earn 50 cents for every window you wipe. You can earn your rent like this."

"Sir, the system doesn't have any data on your marriage records with Ms. Lydia Payne." I can feel my knees starting to go weak beneath me as I clutch the gastroscopy report. Five years ago, Lydia was recruited by a top-tier law firm all the way in Starbrough. I made the ultimate decision to travel thousands of miles across the sea with her to start a new life there. She had told me, "Once I've garnered enough wealth and a solid reputation, I'll help you apply for a PR card right away." But it has been five years, and yet my Permanent Resident Card is still in the process of being approved. On the other hand, Lydia's assistant, Philip Wilder, who has traveled to Starbrough with us, has already received his own PR card thanks to Lydia vouching for him. When I received news back then, I wanted to break up with Lydia and fly back to Luxoria. Lydia, who had always prided herself on being cool and calm at all times, panicked for the very first time. She gripped my hand as she said, "It's difficult for Philip to hold down a career in another country, so I view it as my responsibility to help him out. "You're my husband, Nathaniel. You'll have your own PR card sooner or later. My job is a sensitive one, you see, so I need to avoid showing favoritism to you. Please be more understanding toward me." Well, I've been understanding toward Lydia for five whole years. My phone suddenly rings. When I answer the call, I can practically hear the smile dripping off Lydia's tone. "Phillip has successfully passed his citizenship exam! We're celebrating the occasion tonight. Hurry up and come home so that you can get dinner started." I feel my heart going stone-cold as I stare at the marriage certificate in my hand. Well, it's more like a piece of useless paper now. It turns out that I'm not Lydia's legal husband at all. I don't have an identity here, which means I can't receive any benefits. Heck, I can't even get started on the medical insurance that's needed for my follow-up treatments. After ending the call, I book an appointment for a keyhole surgery. Then, I book a ticket on the quickest flight back to Luxoria. This time, I won't go back to Lydia ever again.

I have always had an almost pathological sense of paranoia. Ever since I was a child, I was convinced that the people around me were out to get me. Back in elementary school, when everyone was lining up for their student ID photos, I flatly refused to have mine taken. I insisted that the district office was going to use my picture for identity theft. The situation escalated so badly that the principal had to personally sit me down and spend half an hour trying to convince me otherwise. Then, there was the fingerprint registration system in middle school. The school required every student to submit their fingerprints to access the campus buildings. I was so terrified that someone would steal my biometric data that I literally rubbed the skin off all ten fingertips to make them unreadable. Even when my fingers were bleeding, I kept shouting that they were trying to steal my identity. I would rather climb over the school fence every day than cooperate. Every relative I had called me crazy. My parents were so fed up that they seriously considered having me admitted to a psychiatric hospital. I did not care. I guarded my privacy with obsessive determination, gritting my teeth and holding my ground all the way up to the eve of the final exams. Then came the day before the exam. That afternoon, our homeroom teacher, Tracy Collins, walked into the classroom carrying a metal lockbox. A warm, motherly smile spread across her face as she set it down on the desk. "Everyone," she said, "to make sure nobody forgets their documents tomorrow, I'd like you to hand over your IDs and exam admission slips for safekeeping tonight." She patted the lockbox reassuringly. "Tomorrow morning, I'll personally return them to each of you outside the testing center. This way, there's absolutely nothing that can go wrong." The class was deeply moved by her thoughtfulness. Some students even looked close to tears as they eagerly pulled out their documents and lined up to hand them over. Everyone except me. My hand clamped down over my pocket so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Cold sweat poured down my back. A sharp alarm bell was ringing in my head. Trying not to attract attention, I fished out a spare flip phone from my bag, ducked beneath my desk, and dialed emergency services. As soon as the call connected, I lowered my voice and spoke into the receiver. "Hello. I'd like to report a crime. My name is Charles. "I believe a teacher at St. Alden High is working with an identity-fraud ring and is planning a large-scale operation tonight involving examination fraud and identity theft."

When I get reborn, I quietly change the name of the man I want to marry the most to the hedonistic playboy in the neighborhood. My dad, who's a political officer, is quite surprised to see the change, but he still accepts my choice. In my previous life, when Dad asked me who I liked the most among the young men of the military housing office, I uttered Judd Garrison's name with scarlet cheeks. Dad nodded. "Judd is your childhood friend, not to mention our families are compatible in terms of social standing and wealth. You two have grown up together since you were kids, so I believe he will treat you well." Later on, Judd and I got engaged and married. Our wedding was a fancy and high-profile one to the point that even the political leader gave us his blessings. But Judd was quick to submit an application to help defend the border half a year into our marriage. He claimed that he wanted to contribute to the country with his efforts. Not only did he abandon me, leaving me to take care of my in-laws on my own, but he also cut off contact with me when Dad was falsely accused of being corrupted. Just as I thought I couldn't function anymore after suffering from the pain wrought upon me by Dad's death, I received the tragic news that Judd had died in a mountain flood as well. Thanks to the devastation caused by both pieces of bad news, I ended up taking my own life by hanging myself. What I didn't expect was that a gray-haired, elderly couple would visit my grave to pay respects to me 40 years after my death. Judd, who should've been dead, had an arm wrapped around my cousin, Megan Whitlock, as they stood before my grave. "It's my fault for faking my death and lying to you, Julie. Back then, I had to marry you in order to fulfill my parents' request. Megan has always been the woman that I truly love. "This is all my fault, Julie. I just hope that you can stop pestering Megan from now on. If you really are resentful, you're free to direct your resentment at me." To think that they loved each other to this extent… Judd was willing to give up on his identity and fake his death in order to get out of his life with me so that he could stay with Megan forever. He even clung to the superstition that my postmortem resentment was the reason behind Megan's cancer. Having found out about the truth, I let go of my obsession and faded into nothing. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the day Dad asks me who I like the most.