I had a secret. A chilling, impossible secret. After I killed someone, I could steal their memories from the past three years. Before my college entrance exams, I killed my academic prodigy boyfriend. And I got into a good university. 1 When did I first discover this… ability? It was when I was nine. My parents got divorced, and custody was awarded to my mother. I loved Mom, but deep down, I loved Dad more. I often snuck off to see him, to play. But one day, when I went to find him, I walked in on him kissing a woman I didn’t know. My parents had always kept me shielded from such things; it was the first time I’d seen a man and a woman kiss. The woman’s lips were painted a vivid, predatory crimson, so red they looked ready to devour. A surge of anger coiled in my gut. Even at that tender age, I understood. It was my father who had done something wrong, which was why they’d divorced. My father was a bad man. Furious, I stormed into his car and scattered a handful of marbles. They’d surely jab his backside, and maybe make that woman trip and fall. Instead, the marbles jammed the brake pads, causing the brakes to fail. The woman ended up in a coma, and my father died instantly at the scene. The police reviewed the surveillance footage and found I’d put marbles in the car. But a nine-year-old child, they reasoned, knew nothing and bore no criminal responsibility. Moreover, I was openly distraught, weeping uncontrollably over the loss of my father. No one blamed me. Everyone just pitied me. Yet, even as I wept, a torrent of new memories flooded my mind. Within those memories, I saw the woman’s face. So my father had been… “bad” long before that. I saw my mother and father arguing, saw my father secretly taking money from the household. I saw the woman and my father entwined, their repulsive entanglement nauseating me. I threw up. My mother and the police assumed I was simply overwhelmed by grief, my body giving out. Only I knew the truth: it was pure disgust. A child, still so small, I had witnessed two beasts entwined. 2 Unexpectedly, my sorrow vanished rather quickly. What lingered, however, was the disgust. And simultaneously, I realized something unique about myself. When I was little, I dared not speak of it; as I grew, I simply chose not to. It wasn't until I was much older that I truly grasped the full implications of this ability. In middle school, Chloe, the girl from next door, and I were in the same class and incredibly close. We walked to and from school together, inseparable, even going to the restroom in tandem. Our teachers jokingly called us conjoined twins. Chloe wasn't exactly kind, but she was beautiful, far prettier than me. Sometimes I'd overhear whispers: "There's the princess and her little sidekick." I didn't really care, but Chloe always seemed to bask in it. I figured that was one of the reasons we were such good friends. No one likes to be outshone, especially by someone they're close to. Chloe enjoyed feeling superior to me, and in a way, that proved she genuinely considered me a close friend. I was incredibly good to Chloe, so much so that she became quite dependent on me. Her grades were always better than mine, except for Math. So I always did her Math homework for her, meticulously neat. During regular quizzes, I, being the Math class monitor, would help Ms. Davis grade papers in the office. And whenever I did, I'd secretly correct a few of Chloe's mistakes, bumping up her score. Until one day, Ms. Davis found out. Ms. Davis didn't scold me for altering the grades; instead, she laid into Chloe. Ms. Davis had always disliked Chloe's pretty, fashion-conscious demeanor, and her poor Math grades only fueled that disdain. "All day long, your mind is on anything but your studies, always plotting these sneaky little tricks!" she snapped. "Girls like you will never amount to anything more than a pretty face." Chloe's eyes immediately welled up. With a loud thump, she shoved her desk aside and bolted out of the classroom. Ms. Davis initially scoffed, but when Chloe didn't return, a flicker of worry crossed her face, fearing something might have happened. After teaching for a bit, she couldn't contain herself and asked me to go check on Chloe. I knew exactly where Chloe would be. She'd be in the janitor's closet next to the third-floor staff lounge. Whenever Chloe was upset, she'd retreat into that tiny space. I quietly pushed open the closet door, squeezed inside, and huddled beside Chloe. Chloe didn't look at me, and I didn't look at her. I knew her. She didn't want me to see her looking so vulnerable. After a while, Chloe spoke. "I hate Ms. Davis," she mumbled. "Neither do I," I said, feeling a perverse satisfaction. My childish solidarity made her crack a small smile. "Let's go back," she said. "Okay." Chloe and my friendship grew even stronger. But sometimes, you just had to admit it: academic ability truly was a matter of innate talent. I tried, I really did, but when it came to studies, I simply had no knack for it. Chloe and I spent every day together, dedicating almost the same amount of time to studying. Yet Chloe's grades kept improving, steadily rising in every subject, even her Math was quickly catching up to mine. Sometimes she'd offer to tutor me, but I just couldn't grasp it. My mother often compared me to Chloe, and I hated disappointing her. I only had my mother left. Watching my grades stagnate, I grew increasingly anxious. A vague, dark idea began to coalesce in my mind. What if I killed Chloe? If I killed Chloe, I would gain all her middle school memories – three years of them. Some thoughts are like persistent weeds; once they sprout in your mind, they refuse to be uprooted. I had a plan. Just last year, the school had installed new air conditioning units; they worked incredibly well. Many older students would joke bitterly that the school only installed AC after they'd graduated. Chloe was quite short, always sitting in the first or second row, while I sat in the fifth or sixth. As summer approached, the school gradually switched on the air conditioning. I'd often complain about the heat, then during breaks, I'd stroll over to Chloe's desk. While chatting with her, I'd casually crank the AC to 16 degrees Celsius on full blast. The moment the bell rang, I'd leave. Sometimes Chloe would remember to turn it back, sometimes she wouldn't. So Chloe often sat through an entire class session blasted by cold air. Just a few days prior, Chloe and I had gone shopping downtown. I mentioned my mother had told me to stock up on cold medicine and asked if she needed any. "Cold medicine in the middle of summer? What for?" she'd asked. "My mom says I'm constantly in air-conditioned rooms at home and school, but then I'm out in the heat sweating. The drastic temperature changes make it easy to catch a cold, so she told me to get some meds just in case." Chloe hesitated, then agreed it made sense, and bought the same medicine as me. When I saw Chloe blowing her nose and complaining of a headache, I knew my chance had come. That afternoon after school, Chloe and I walked home together, as usual. "Let's sit by the riverside park for a bit," I suggested. We often stopped there after school to relax and chat, so it wasn't unusual. I pulled Chloe along, deliberately guiding her to a spot within view of the nearby convenience store's surveillance cameras. I told Chloe to open her backpack. She unzipped it to find two bottles of alcohol, and they looked pretty potent. She pulled the bottles out. "Ta-da! A surprise for you!" she exclaimed. "We're almost high schoolers. Don't you want to try it?" I turned slightly, letting my hair fall forward to obscure my mouth. I knew Chloe well. Beneath her compliant facade, she harbored a streak of rebellion. Chloe's parents were always quite strict with her. She secretly yearned for something wild, something transgressive, but she'd never had the opportunity. Chloe held the bottles, then handed one to me. I turned, feigning sudden apprehension, a flicker of regret. I waved my hand. "Maybe we shouldn't? Chloe, won't your mom and dad be mad?" Hearing that, Chloe's resolve only stiffened. "It's fine! Just one sip!" I maintained my hesitant expression until Chloe forcefully pressed a bottle into my hand. We talked for hours. We discussed recent exams, our futures, our detested Math teacher, and the breathtaking sunset. She apologized to me. She said sometimes she couldn't help but treat me like her little sidekick. She said I was her best friend, that I always would be. I said, "Yes." Seeing that it was getting late, I patted Chloe's shoulder and suggested we head home. I hadn't actually drunk much; every time I raised the bottle, it was just a tiny sip. Chloe, however, seemed quite tipsy, struggling to get to her feet. I'd done my research: Chloe's mother was working late shifts all week, and her father had the night shift. Chloe would be home alone. I looked at Chloe. "Bye, Chloe." "See you tomorrow." "Oh, and one more thing." I smiled, meeting her eyes. "You've got a bit of a cold coming on. Remember to take your cold medicine when you get home." Chloe smiled and nodded, her eyes, in the fading light of the sunset, held a gentle, flickering flame. I calmly returned home, ate dinner with my mother, and finished my homework as usual. Then I drifted peacefully into sleep. The next morning, a sharp pain shot through my head. I found my mind suddenly crowded with new memories. I knew. I had succeeded. 3 Chloe was dead. Chloe's mother found her collapsed in the living room when she came home that night. By the time they got her to the hospital, it was too late. Police investigation concluded she had died from poisoning, a lethal reaction to consuming antibiotics and alcohol simultaneously. In an age before widespread internet access, as middle schoolers, we weren't fully aware of such common knowledge. Except for me, armed with three years of my father's memories. That's right. The cold medicine Chloe and I had bought that day contained cephalosporin, a common antibiotic. It had all gone too smoothly, beyond my wildest expectations. I'd considered so many possibilities: Chloe might not have taken the medicine. Chloe might have taken medicine, but not the cephalosporin. Chloe might have felt unwell and called for help in time. Her mother might have come home early and stopped her. Could such seamless success mean that fate itself was on my side? As Chloe's best friend, and the last person to see her alive, I was called to the police station for questioning. I was a minor, so a parent had to accompany me. Facing the police officers, I looked utterly terrified. My mother comforted me. "It's okay, honey, the officers just want to ask you a few questions." "Yes, don't be scared, little one, we just have some questions for you," the officer added kindly. They clearly didn't suspect a young girl like me could be capable of anything nefarious. "According to the victim's mother, Chloe didn't usually drink alcohol, yet you two were drinking that day. Why was that?" I looked scared, turning to my mother. My mother gave my arm a reassuring pat, signaling that it was fine, just to tell the truth. "Chloe said she wanted to try drinking that day, just for a thrill. She suddenly pulled two bottles of alcohol out of her bag." I paused, my voice trembling. "I really didn't want to drink, and I tried to convince her not to, but who would have thought..." As I spoke, tears began to stream down my face, uncontrolled. The officer nodded. The surveillance footage indeed showed Chloe practically forcing the bottle into my hand. The police asked a few more innocuous questions, then let me leave. The case was ultimately classified as a tragic consequence of adolescent rebellion and a fatal lack of basic knowledge. Chloe's death was even publicized within the school as a cautionary tale. I sorted through the torrent of new thoughts in my mind, like discovering a new continent. Chloe's mind, it turned out, contained an astonishing wealth of knowledge. My grades skyrocketed, making my mother incredibly happy. I was thrilled. On the day of the middle school entrance exams, I performed flawlessly, earning my desired spot at Northwood Academy, the best high school in the city. My mother sold our house and bought a new one in a desirable school district near Northwood Academy. My new bedroom was spacious, with a large window. I even had my own study. During the summer, my mother enrolled me in a high school preparatory course. So when high school started, I wasn't completely overwhelmed. But I knew this wasn't a sustainable solution. I lacked any real academic talent; I simply wasn't intelligent. Even with Chloe's solid knowledge base, I would eventually fall behind. My last success had relied too heavily on luck. This time, I needed to meticulously plan my high school years.
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