Born As Kidney Donor For My Sister

The pain I endured that night was worse than what I had experienced at ten. The older Nash knew better than my stepfather how to make me suffer. In the end, he pinned me down, yanked my hair, and whispered in my ear, word by word, that I would never escape him in this lifetime.

Fortunately, the next day was a holiday, and I could compose myself before Bronx saw my disheveled state.

I guessed that my mother and Lydia must have known what I went through, but neither of them. knocked on my door. After all, they shared the same blood.

Only I was the exception.

Looking at the shallow scar on my wrist, which

I remembered was from when I was fifteen, I wondered what it had accomplished. I was saved, only to be met with even more extreme pain.

Thinking of Bronx’s smile and the way he carefully brushed off the snow, I found the courage to resist to the end.

At dinner, my mother went out to buy groceries, filling the table with all my favorite dishes.

But what does it matter? I am already dead.

I watched her leave a special spot for me at the dinner table, meticulously tidy my bedroom, and stare blankly at my photos over and over.

I couldn’t understand the meaning of it all.

Was it for compensation? Or for her own peace of mind?

I wanted to storm up and overturn the table, to tell her she needn’t put on such a show. But I couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t hear me.

I longed countless times for my mother to look at me, to notice my emotions, to save my still–broken soul.

She never did.

She was absorbed in the perfect family she had built, while I became a rag she used to cover up the mess.

Desperately, I wondered why I was trapped in such a hypocritical family. Could I not escape them even after my death?

I didn’t know how to find the answers; perhaps some questions will never be answered.

After dinner, I saw them gathered in the living room, my mother placing my diary on the coffee table.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

I leaned against the wall, watching my mother cry for me, hearing her say, “How could you do this to my Ally?”

I saw them begin to accuse one another, each word circling around me.

My stepfather covered his face and, regretfully, said he wasn’t a good father.

Of course, you weren’t. You’re a devil skilled in disguise. You choked me before I had a chance to grow, waded through the foul waters of my life, and smothered me in that summer’s heat.

Nash slapped himself, claiming he was truly inhuman.

Indeed. You are the abyss I cannot escape, the muck that destroyed my life. You trample over my body while feigning righteousness. Unable to stop your father’s actions, you wallow in sinful pleasure, savoring the sight of my eternal helplessness.

Lydia wept sorrowfully, claiming she didn’t know things were this way.

No, you guessed it. But you are a coward unwilling to face the truth. You knew I was the victim, but to prove your father’s innocence, believing he was still the kind, learned, and loving parent, you shifted all the blame onto me, seeking excuses through repeated cruelty.

My mother wiped the frame of my photo, repeatedly saying she didn’t know things would get so severe and that she would have protected me if she had known.

No, you did know. As the wife of my stepfather, how could you not be aware of his crimes?

On those nights when you found yourself alone, how could you not have searched for the truth?

If you truly were unaware, why did you arrange separate bedrooms for Lydia and me when I was eleven?

You knew, but you chose not to intervene.

In fact, you seemed pleased. Trading me, your daughter who should never have existed, a symbol of your past shame, for the affection between you and your husband, for the

completeness of this family, and for your secure future, was worth it.

Bronx, on the other hand, remained silently in pain.

I knew he was regretting it.

No, Bronx. You need not regret. In my brief life, you were the knight who cleaved through the darkness with your sword and presented me with the most exquisite flowers.

How could I ever blame you?