Part 1After Dying in the Fire, I Witnessed My Family "Selling" Me Cheaply for Money

CHAPTER

Is that me?

Being burned alive feels exactly how you’d imagine—a scorching, all-consuming agony that burrows into every inch of my body.

I should be dead.

But I’m not.

Not exactly.

I hover, weightless, watching the scene unfold beneath me.

Watching her.

"Our Evelyn is so beautiful. Tomorrow is your birthday party! Mom bought you this dress."

My mother’s voice is soft, affectionate—a voice I never knew she was capable of.

She holds up a shimmering dress.

I’ve seen that dress before.

My sister once boasted that it cost 10,000 dollars—more than my parents make in a month.

Yet, they still bought it for her.

They always found a way to meet her demands.

When the fire left scars on her fingers, they scraped together the money to have them removed.

But when I burned?

I got nothing.

Not a hospital visit. Not a touch of comfort. Not even a second glance.

Because in this family, only one daughter mattered.

This cramped, two-bedroom apartment was purchased for her.

My parents took out a loan to move closer to a better school.

One bedroom belonged to them.

The other? Hers.

I never had one.

"Sis, my classmates will laugh at me if they see how small my room is. Why don't you sleep in the living room instead?"

I was twelve.

She dragged me to the couch, tossed me a blanket, and slammed the door in my face.

I wanted to protest.

I wanted to tell my parents.

But all they said was, "It’s just the living room. We used to sleep under bridges, and you can’t even handle this?"

So, I stopped complaining.

I slept on that couch for five years.

And in that time, I learned:

I was nothing more than a shadow in this house.

Once, I was cleaning her room and accidentally brushed against her bed.

My mother’s voice had cracked like a whip.

"Your hands are filthy! Do you want to dirty my daughter’s bed?"

My daughter.

Not her daughters.

Just one.

From that day forward, I never stepped foot in her room again.

And yet, standing here, looking down at the family that ignored me in life, I still hoped—stupidly, desperately hoped—that my death would shake them.

That they'd grieve me.

That they’d miss me.

But instead—

"Mom, I'm inviting my friends to celebrate my birthday at a restaurant tomorrow!"

My parents exchange hesitant glances.

I can see the deep lines of exhaustion on their faces, the weight of financial stress.

They can’t afford this.

They shouldn’t.

But then my mother smiles. Soft. Loving. Indulgent.

"Of course, Evelyn! Mom won’t forget your birthday. Everything’s set—you’ll be the most beautiful girl there."

The most beautiful girl.

Not a single mention of the daughter they just lost.

Not a single flicker of sadness.

And then—

"Damn it, Big Sis had to die at the worst possible time. What bad luck."

Bad luck.

Not tragedy.

Not grief.

Just inconvenience.

My chest clenches with something sharp, something suffocating.

I was nothing to them.

I had always been nothing.

When I was little, I believed that even if my mother was unfair, she still loved me.

That my father’s beatings, his cruel words—they meant he cared.

"Beating is affection. Scolding is love," he used to say.

So, I endured it.

I remembered every lesson.

I never made the same mistake twice.

The neighbors praised me for being such a "sensible child."

And sometimes—just sometimes—my parents would smile.

But as I watch my sister now, dry-eyed and unbothered by my death, I finally understand.

I was never their daughter.

I was never anything.

"Big Sis was so capable," she sighs, voice laced with insincerity. "But she died in the fire."

Then, as if on cue, she forces out a few fake tears.

I stare at her perfect, unmarked face.

At those cold, soulless eyes.

A surge of hatred curls in my gut.

I want to reach out.

I want to rip them out.

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