At ten, I begged my brother to come home for my birthday. He died in a plane crash on the way back. His body was never found. From then on, I became a painful reminder to my parents of their loss. They blamed me. Every year on the crash anniversary, they forced me to kneel at his empty grave in repentance. I knelt for eight years. Just when I thought I’d spend my life atoning, I was stalked and murdered on my eighteenth birthday. Dying, I texted my mother for help. Her reply pierced my heart: “More lies to avoid atoning for what you did to your brother. If you hadn’t forced him to come, he’d still be alive! This is the price you deserve.” The call ended without mercy. I stared at the dark screen, and my will to live vanished. She was right. What right did a monster like me have to live? But then, eight years after he was supposed dead, my brother returned—with his pregnant wife. When they learned what happened to me, their world collapsed. 1 On my tenth birthday, I made a fatal mistake. I killed my own brother. I grew up in a happy home. I had loving parents and a brilliant older brother, Benjamin. I was the center of their universe. But all of it shattered with a single phone call. It was my birthday, and I called Benjamin, pleading with him to come home to celebrate with me. He never made it. The plane went down. There were no survivors, no bodies to bury. From that moment on, my parents hated me. They said it to my face, more times than I can count. “Why did you have to make him come back? Why wasn't it you who died?” In a way, I did die in that crash. The guilt, the regret, the constant accusations from my own parents—it all dragged me down into an abyss. I spent years asking myself the same questions over and over. Why did I make that call? Why did I kill him? Why did God take him away? If only I hadn't called him. Maybe he would still be alive. But there are no “if onlys” in this world. And no one was there to give me an answer. From the age of ten, my life had only one purpose: atonement. Every year, on the anniversary of Benjamin’s death—which was also my birthday—my parents would drive me to the cemetery. They’d make me kneel before his empty grave and repent. I did this for eight years. Just when I thought my life couldn't get any bleaker, I was found by the Rain Killer. And I was murdered. In those last moments, I fought desperately to live. I reached for the taser my father had given me. It was disguised as a cute, white lamb keychain. Years ago, my father’s work had made him some dangerous enemies. My mother and I were kidnapped. To save me, my mother was dragged by the kidnappers’ car for what felt like miles. My father was stabbed in the chest protecting us. The police saved us in the end, but the fear never left him. After that, he gave me the keychain. Inside the little lamb was a high-voltage taser. He taught me how to use it. “I can’t always be there to protect you, Ava,” he’d said. “You have to be able to protect yourself.” But when the killer grabbed me, when I finally managed to flick open the pendant and jam it into his side, nothing happened. It was broken. That was my last chance. Even now, as a spirit, I remember every detail with horrifying clarity. The wrench, the pliers, the axe… one by one, he used them on me. The terror on my face was like a drug to him. The pain was unimaginable. It was so intense I lost control of my body. I never thought the sound of my own bones snapping would be so loud, echoing in my ears. Skin tearing from flesh, my vision turning red. Then, darkness. When I opened my eyes again, I was a ghost. And I was in a police station. Lightning flashed outside the window. My father, in his work scrubs, stood with a look of profound sorrow in his eyes. He was surrounded by a few young forensic techs. On the stainless-steel table in front of them was a bag filled with neatly cut pieces of flesh. It was what Detective Evans and his team had managed to recover from the rain-soaked crime scene. I never imagined they would find me so quickly. Maybe it was the universe’s last act of pity for my miserable life. A homeless man, digging through a dumpster, had found the bag. He thought he’d scored some free meat until he saw a human finger. A torrential downpour had set the stage for a brutal dismemberment case. Outside, the storm raged. Police officers and K-9 units were scouring the city. Detective Evans was furious, his face a mask of rage. The killer’s methods were identical to the Rain Killer’s from eight years ago. “Rob,” he said, his voice tight, “doesn’t this feel familiar? Like the Rain Killer’s work?” My father’s expression hardened. The Rain Killer. A monster who only hunted on stormy nights, who took a sick pleasure in torturing and murdering young women. He had shattered countless families. Years ago, my father had been closing in on him. He’d found the evidence needed for an arrest. But the killer got wind of it and fled. As an act of revenge, he sabotaged the plane my brother was supposed to be on, intending for them both to die in the crash. Neither of their bodies had ever been recovered. So, of course, Evans immediately made the connection. If the killer had survived, he would be back for revenge. He felt a sudden urgency. “Rob, if it’s really him, you need to make sure Maria and Ava don’t leave the house. You have to protect Ava. She’s exactly his type!” But at the mention of my name, the anxiety on my father’s face vanished, replaced by an icy calm. “She should have died a long time ago.” A sharp pain, even in my ghostly form, pierced through me. He was right. I should have. These past eight years were just stolen time. Evans knew the whole story. He wanted to offer some comfort but could only manage a grimace. After Benjamin’s death, my parents had spent three days and three nights searching the mountains where the plane had gone down. In the end, they were found kneeling by the side of the road, their eyes bloodshot, begging the heavens to give them back their son. The pain of losing a child was a wound that would never heal for them. Evans sighed. “Alright, Rob. Let’s not dwell on it. The department is breathing down our necks about this case. It’s high priority.” My father knew his duty. He turned back to his work, carefully removing the pieces of flesh from the bag. Suddenly, he swore under his breath. “Son of a bitch.” He gritted his teeth. “What kind of animal does this?” A younger tech, seeing such a gruesome scene for the first time, had to turn away, his eyes red. But right now, the priority was identifying the victim. After the officers brought back every fragment they could find, my father began the grim task of reassembling the body. I floated beside him, watching for a full day as he pieced together a skinless human form. In a twisted way, I was relieved. I knew how horrific I must look, and I was afraid the shock of recognizing me would be too much for him. And I was relieved that this life, so full of guilt, was finally over. Detective Evans stared at the raw, red corpse on the table. Even after years on the force, his face was pale with disgust. He asked my father if the killer did this to hide evidence or if it was the work of a psychopath. My father’s face was grim. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “He wasn’t trying to hide evidence. Our analysis shows… the victim was flayed alive.” He clenched his fists, trying to maintain his composure. “This was purely for his own sick pleasure. For revenge.” He pointed to my body. “Look here. There are even traces of salt corrosion on the flesh. He tortured her, slicing off her flesh piece by piece while she was still conscious.” My father’s voice broke with a grief he couldn’t contain. “And she was just a kid. Sixteen to twenty years old. What kind of monster would do this?” I floated beside him, almost wanting to applaud. He truly was the best forensic pathologist in the city, able to pinpoint my cause of death with such precision. Evans’s eyes grew colder. “That bastard. That soulless piece of filth.” He was so angry his chest was heaving. “We’re running a search for all missing females between sixteen and twenty in the last few days. Hopefully, we can get an ID soon.” My father, as if remembering something, spoke again. “The bag was missing the right femur. It’s possible the victim had some kind of identifying mark on that bone—a birth defect, an old injury, surgical pins.” He added, “And since the killer used acid on her face, reconstruction will take time.” He sighed and pulled off his gloves. Lying on the table next to his instruments was the little lamb keychain, caked in my blood. He didn't even recognize the gift he had given me to keep me safe. After finishing his work for the day, my father checked his phone. His face contorted with rage, and he immediately called my mother. “Did you see the text from Ava? That little liar. The nerve of her to say something like that. I swear she does it on purpose, just to provoke us!” He was seething. “Doesn’t she know? If she hadn’t insisted her brother come back, Benjamin wouldn’t have been killed by the Rain Killer! And now she has the gall to claim she’s being followed!” I watched his face, red with fury, and felt a deep sadness. Dad, I wasn’t lying. I really am dead. Why would I use the man who killed my brother to hurt you? I would never do something like that. I was so scared, so helpless. That’s why I reached out to you. But my father couldn't see me. Neither could my mother. I could hear her on the other end of the line, just as angry. “I saw her text. I ignored it. She’s just trying to get out of her duties, that’s all. That damn girl has no sense of remorse!” I listened to them condemn me, and I covered my ears, a ghost overwhelmed with a grief that had no voice. Just when I thought my death would remain a secret to them, my best friend, Chloe, burst into the station. She told the officer at the desk that I had been missing for two days. But as the officer was about to take down my name, my father stopped him. “Don’t bother. I’m Ava’s father. She’s not missing. She’s just trying to manipulate her mother and me.” The officer looked uncomfortably at Chloe. He knew who my father was. He had no choice but to back down. I watched Chloe leave the station, her shoulders slumped in defeat, tears streaming down her face. I wanted to follow her, to comfort her, but I was bound to my father’s side. I watched him work on my skull. I followed him home. On the dinner table, as always, were all of Benjamin’s favorite dishes: braised fish, spicy crab, fried prawns. My mother remembered every one of his preferences, but she could never be bothered to remember that I was deathly allergic to seafood. Once, my father had asked me why I wasn’t eating. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was finally going to show me some love. I clutched my chopsticks and summoned my courage. “Dad, I’m… I’m allergic to seafood.” My mother slammed her chopsticks down and pointed at me. “What did I do to deserve such an ungrateful child? I slave away in the kitchen to make this beautiful meal, and this is the thanks I get?” I looked to my father for help, to the hero who used to protect me whenever I made Mom angry. But this time, my hero simply placed a large piece of crab in my bowl. “Just eat, Ava. Don’t make your mother angry.” Their eyes were on me, judging me. If I didn’t eat, I would be the villain. So, I ate the entire plate of crab. That night, my throat swelled shut until I could barely breathe. My eyes bulged, blurring my vision. My entire body ached and itched. “Help… me…” My voice was a choked whisper. I stumbled to my bedroom door, trying to open it, but the handle wouldn't turn. It was locked. Panic seized me. I started banging on the door, trying to make a sound. “Help… please… Dad, Mom… save me… I don’t want to die…” Through the haze of pain, I heard my mother’s voice from the living room. “It’s just an allergic reaction, she’s not going to die. Good thing I locked the door. She’s always playing the victim. It’s disgusting. Benjamin came to me in a dream last night, he said he wants the newest video game console. Let’s go, the mall will close soon.” No! Mom, Dad, don’t leave me! I don’t want to die, please, save me… The front door slammed shut. I was abandoned. Maybe this is it, I thought. Maybe when I’m dead, it won’t hurt anymore. I curled up in a corner, waiting to die. From the street below, I heard the laughter of a father and his daughter. “You silly girl, you know you’re allergic to peanuts, and you still ate them! You almost gave me a heart attack!” “I’m sorry, Daddy! It was an accident! Please don’t tell Mom.” “Your mom already knows. She was so worried she pulled a muscle in her back, but she still made a huge dinner with all your favorite foods. As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters. Parents can’t stay mad at their kids.” I felt like a sewer rat, hiding in the darkness, greedily listening in on a happiness that wasn’t mine. In that moment, I was filled with a self-loathing so profound I wanted to disappear. I wanted my parents to love me like that, to worry about my allergies, to cook my favorite meals, to fuss over me. But I was the bad child who had killed her brother. I didn't deserve to be loved. But Mom, Dad… I don’t want to die. I really don’t want to die… I didn’t die that day. In a last-ditch effort, I jumped from my second-story window. Someone found me and took me to the hospital. The doctor said I was lucky; any later and it would have been fatal. The mother of the girl in the next bed peeled an orange for her daughter and said to me, “Thank goodness you’re okay. Your parents must have been so worried!” I watched with envy as she fed her daughter orange slices, one by one. The reflection in the window showed me, alone. I tried to comfort myself, to convince the world. I forced a laugh and said loudly, “Yes, my parents love me very, very much.” Suddenly, the door to my room was thrown open. My parents rushed in, their faces etched with urgency. A wave of raw emotion washed over me. I struggled to sit up, wincing in pain as tears streamed down my face. “Dad… Mom…” I was so scared. I was so scared I was going to die. Can you just hug me? Please? Just once… My mother grabbed the collar of my hospital gown and yanked me out of bed, throwing me to the floor. The IV needle was ripped from my arm, and blood spurted out. “You little bitch!” she screamed. “Playing the victim again! You ate that on purpose and then jumped out the window just to make a scene, didn’t you? You wanted everyone to think your father and I abuse you, to ruin our reputation! Why didn’t you just jump from a higher floor and die?” I curled into a ball, covering my head as she kicked me, again and again. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just didn’t want to die… I had survived the fall, but I couldn’t survive their hatred. In the reflection, I saw my father leaning against the wall, watching coldly as my mother clawed at me with her nails. I saw the mother in the next bed holding her frightened daughter, cooing softly to her. The people gathered at the door stared at me with contempt, with disgust, as if I were some kind of evil child. The fragile illusion I had just built—that my parents loved me—was shattered in front of everyone. I was lying. My parents don’t love me. They… they hate me most of all… After that, they cut off my allowance. I applied to live at the school dorm. I ate cheap buns and free soup from the cafeteria. I slept on a thin mattress over a straw mat in a room with fifteen other girls. My scholarships barely covered the boarding fees. As I moved from middle school to high school, the fees increased. I studied day and night, desperate to get a few extra points on every exam to win enough scholarship money to survive. I always believed that if I could just be more exceptional, they would love me again. But when I brought home a report card with near-perfect scores, and a visiting relative praised me, my mother scoffed. “She’s as dumb as a rock. Not half as smart as Benjamin was. How could she possibly get scores like that?” Then, she slapped me across the face. “Tell me,” she hissed. “Who did you cheat off of?” My face burned, and my heart ached with it. I just wanted to disappear. Later, my teacher called to confirm my grades. My mother just glanced at the shredded report card in the trash can and sneered. “What’s so great about these scores? Your brother got perfect scores in every subject. You’re such a disappointment. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” My heart was shredded along with that report card. My parents love smart children, like Benjamin. So, I will erase myself and become him. I threw myself into my studies with even more ferocity. Summer, winter, spring, fall—my body was a constant cycle of heat rash, frostbite, and mosquito bites. When I walked out of my final college entrance exam, I felt a flicker of hope. I had finally proven that I was as brilliant as Benjamin. Maybe now… maybe now they’ll start to love me… But I was murdered before the results were even released. I died without ever becoming the brilliant child my parents could love. I watch now as my parents fill Benjamin’s empty bowl at the dinner table, silently placing his favorite foods in it. A ritual they have repeated every day for eight years. But wasn’t I the one who turned them into this? Wasn’t I the one who killed their son? Maybe I really did deserve to die. A knock on the door shattered the silence. A voice from my memories called out. “Mom, Dad, open up! I’m home, and I brought your daughter-in-law with me!”
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