Chapter 1I tried to mimic a cartoon to make my elder sister, Eliza, in the wheelchair laugh. But Mom? She thought I was mocking her disability.
Furious, she injected me with a muscle relaxant.
"You'll only understand Eliza's pain if you live it yourself."
My legs went limp in an instant. I was confined to another wheelchair.
For the next five years, I became a puppet—forced to be paralyzed right alongside her.
On my birthday, I begged in a tiny voice.
"Mom, can I stop the shots?"
Her face darkened in an instant, voice cold as ice.
"Can't take it after just five years? Don't forget—Eliza's stuck like this FOR LIFE!"
With that, she wheeled her out the door.
I rolled my wheelchair to the balcony.
That's when I saw it—my supposedly paralyzed Eliza stand up and run.
Mom wrapped an arm around her shoulders, her voice sharp,
"Don't you feel sorry for your little sister. She laughed at your disability back then, and she deserves every bit of this."
"Five years of shots is harsh, but a cold-blooded brat like her needs a good lesson!"
I froze.
So her legs had been fine all along.
This was nothing but an excuse to punish me.
I stared down at my knees, completely unresponsive.
Suddenly I laughed—tears crashing down onto my hands.
I'd actually stopped taking the shots a month ago. Secretly.
But my legs still felt nothing.
Mom, no need for more shots.
Your punishment?
It's NEVER going to end...
I rolled back to my room.
My right hand went limp all at once, so weak I couldn't even grip the wheelchair's wheel.
It hung there, useless, all the strength drained right out of it.
What's happening?
I stared for a few seconds, then suddenly remembered the slow-release medication in the first-aid kit on my nightstand.
Once, Mom had given me too much of the injection. I'd collapsed on the floor, limp as a rag doll, unable to even move my eyes.
That's the medicine she'd given me to make me feel better.
Just take it, and I'll be fine.
I rolled my wheelchair close to the nightstand.
So close, just a little reach away. I leaned forward, stretching my left hand out for the kit.
My fingertips brushed the edge, but it slid back a little—out of my grasp.
I leaned forward again, and my wheelchair slid back, too. Still no luck.
On the third try, I felt warmth seep through the seat of my pants.
Wetness trickled down my thighs, soaking my long johns.
I froze, staring down. A small dark stain was spreading on the floor beneath the wheelchair.
It took me a few seconds to realize what it was.
My face burned like someone had slapped me across the cheek.
I'd learned to use the bathroom by myself when I was three. I'm ten years old now. How could I wet my pants?
I scrambled to get out of the wheelchair, but my legs wouldn't obey.
The wetness kept coming, nonstop.
I cried, tears hitting the covers.
This is so humiliating.
Mom's gonna see this mess when she gets home, and she's gonna scream at me.
I propped myself up on the bed with my left hand, trying to pull myself onto it, but my right hand was useless.
I slipped, over and over again.
Finally, I toppled out of the wheelchair and crashed to the floor.
My knee banged against the tile, but I felt nothing.
I lay on my stomach, staring at my two legs, splayed out and limp, and the first-aid kit popped back into my head.
Just take the medicine, and I'll be fine.
I pushed myself up on my good left hand, dragging my lifeless lower body across the floor, inch by inch toward the bed.
The hard floor dug into my chest, every move a sharp, shaking pain.
I finally reached the kit, grabbed it, and it clattered to the ground.
Everything inside spilled out.
The bottle of slow-release pills rolled toward me. I poured one out, popped it in my mouth, and swallowed it dry.
But my right hand was still limp, no strength at all.
Not enough. I need more.
I poured out several more, shoving them all in my mouth at once. The hard pills scraped my throat raw.
But my legs were still numb, my right hand still useless.
Eyes red with tears, I poured the entire bottle into my mouth and swallowed, choking it down.
My throat burned, sore and dry—but my body didn't get any better.
I dug my left hand into my thigh, pinching and hitting it as hard as I could. Still no pain.
The medicine just hasn't kicked in yet. Just wait a little longer.
It has to work.
I let my body go limp, lying on the floor, and my mind drifted back to a month ago.
Mom had gone on a business trip, no one to give me the shots those days.
Every morning, the first thing I did was wiggle my toes.
Nothing on day one. Nothing on day two. Nothing on day three.
I told myself the medicine was just still in my system.
But Mom came home on day four, and my legs still didn't move.
After that, I told Mom I'd give myself the shots.
She just glanced at me and agreed.
She had no idea I'd been hiding the medicine every day, replacing it with tap water before injecting it into my arm.
I had to try. I had to see if my legs would get better if I stopped the shots.
But a month passed, and my legs still wouldn't move.
I finally realized the medicine's effects were never going to wear off.
My legs were really, truly broken.
My eyes stung. I lay on the floor, my head spinning.
A wave of nausea rose in my stomach, I wanted to throw up—but I couldn't.
I closed my eyes, thinking I'd feel better if I just slept for a while.
When I woke up again, I was standing.
My feet on the floor, toes wiggling, my right hand moving fine.
I screamed with joy. The slow-release pills worked! My legs were better, I could move!
I spun around in excitement—and saw a body lying on the floor.
That body? It was mine.
Chapter 2
I stepped closer, and my blood ran cold.
The person on the floor, pale as a ghost, foam at the mouth, face twisted in agony—it was me.
So I wasn't better. I was dead.
I let the grief wash over me, and then a strange sense of relief settled in.
Dead is better. No more daily shots, no more wetting my pants, no more making Mom angry.
And Eliza wouldn't be stuck in a wheelchair anymore, faking being sick.
I was still thinking when I heard footsteps in the hallway.
I floated out the door and saw Mom and her coming home.
Mom pulled a clean wheelchair out from the corner of the hallway, and she looked miserable.
"Mom, how much longer do I have to pretend? I hate this wheelchair."
Mom helped her sit down, her voice soft as she comforted her,
"Just a little longer. Lily threw a fit this morning, refusing her shot. She hasn't learned her lesson at all."
She spoke up, hesitant,
"Mom, I don't think she was really mocking me back then. Did you get it wrong?"
Mom cut her off with a sharp yell,
"You were just a kid! What do you know! That little sister of yours is a BAD SEED, born and bred! Cold-hearted to the core!"
"You'd only broken your leg, had to sit in the chair for a few months, and she paraded around limping just to copy you."
"If you'd really been paralyzed, she would've tortured you for the rest of your life!"
"You're just too kind, that's your problem!"
"She's vicious, no empathy at all. If I don't teach her a hard lesson, she'll grow up to be a monster out in the world."
I floated beside them, listening to her scream and put me down, and slowly hung my head.
Is that what she really thinks of me? That I'm such a terrible person?
It's okay, Mom. Don't worry about it anymore. I'm dead now. I'll never be a monster.
Mom wheeled her into the house, glanced at the empty living room, frowned, and yelled toward my room,
"Lily! Lily?"
No answer. She cursed under her breath,
"That brat's probably sleeping in again. Wish she'd sleep forever."
She hurried to calm her down,
"Mom, let her sleep a little longer."
Mom grumbled and stopped, putting the groceries she was holding into the fridge.
Then she pulled a fancy little cake out of the shopping bag and handed it to her—her voice softer than I'd ever heard it.
"Eliza, Mom got your favorite strawberry cake. Eat it quick, don't let Lily see."
She took it, grinning, and said sweetly,
"Thanks, Mom."
"If only Lily was half as good as you," Mom said, brushing a hand through her hair gently.
"Alright, eat it slow. Mom's making your favorite honey-glazed chicken for dinner!"
She nodded so fast her head might fall off, grinning from ear to ear.
Mom went into the kitchen to cook, and I watched the warm scene unfold—my heart feeling like it's been dunked in ice water.
Mom's never been that gentle with me. She's never bought me a little cake, not once.
She really hates me.
The smell of food filled the house soon after, and Dad walked in the door, home from work.
He saw only Eliza in the living room and asked,
"Where's Lily?"
Mom called out from the kitchen, annoyed,
"Asleep in her room."
She turned and carried a plate of food out of the kitchen.
Dad smiled helplessly, walked to my bedroom door, and knocked softly.
"Lily, time for dinner."
He called twice, no answer. His brow furrowed, and he reached for the doorknob to push it open.
"Lily!"
Mom's angry scream shot out from the kitchen, and Dad's hand froze.
I watched her march out of the kitchen, a black plastic bag in her hand.
She slammed it down on the dining table with a loud crack.
Inside was the medicine I'd hidden for a month—an entire bag full of unused syringes and vials.
Chapter 3
Dad pulled his hand back and walked to the table.
His face tightened when he saw the full bag of medicine.
Mom planted her hands on her hips and screamed at my closed bedroom door,
"I KNEW she was up to something! I wondered why she suddenly wanted to give herself the shots a month ago!"
"She's been hiding the medicine this whole time!"
"She hasn't learned a single lesson!"
"Lily, GET OUT HERE!"
Silence from the room.
"Lily! Are you deaf?! GET OUT HERE AND APOLOGIZE!"
Still nothing.
Mom's anger exploded.
She rolled up her sleeves, grabbed a feather duster from behind the door, and stormed toward my room.
Dad rushed to stop her,
"Calm down! Just calm down!"
He pulled her back to the table, frowning as he tried to reason with her,
"Enough. Just calm down first."
He glanced at the bag of medicine, his voice serious,
"She's had those shots for five years, been in a wheelchair for five years. This punishment has gone on long enough."
"Do you really want her stuck in that chair for the rest of her life?"
He looked at my closed door, his voice dropping to a whisper,
"Even if you don't care about Lily, what about Eliza? Does she have to sit in a wheelchair at home forever, act sick for the rest of her life?"
At the mention of Eliza, the fire in Mom's eyes flickered, softening a little.
Dad pressed his advantage,
"Alright, take this chance. Stop the medicine for good. Let them both live normal lives."
"Lily was only five back then. She didn't know any better."
"She's ten now. Talk to her, she'll understand."
Mom fell silent, no argument.
Dad turned to Eliza, who was sitting there, scared stiff, and his voice softened,
"Eliza, no more shots for Lily, and you don't have to fake being sick anymore. No more wheelchairs for either of you at home, okay?"
Eliza's eyes lit up, and she nodded so fast she smiled,
"Really? I don't have to sit in the wheelchair anymore?"
Watching Eliza's joy, Mom nodded, reluctant,
"Fine."
She added at once,
"I'm only doing this for Eliza. That Lily? She's a lost cause, plain and simple."
Dad smiled helplessly, not arguing further, and called everyone to the table,
"Alright, let's eat. I'll go get Lily."
"Don't bother!" Mom snapped, stopping him.
"She's a liar now, she doesn't deserve to eat! Let her starve for a while!"
Dad sighed and sat back down, saying nothing more.
I floated beside them, watching Mom pile food onto Eliza's plate, gentle and caring.
Watching Dad and Eliza smile, like a huge weight had been lifted off their shoulders.
Watching the three of them, a perfect little family, warm and happy.
My heart felt like it was being squeezed tight, a sharp, sour pain spreading through my chest.
So no more shots, no more wheelchair for me?
But Mom, Dad—I'm dead.
I stared down at my translucent hand, trying to clench it.
I couldn't hold anything.
Night fell, the living room dark, Mom and Dad gone to their bedroom to sleep.
My bedroom door creaked open a little, a crack of light seeping through.
It was Eliza.
She pushed a small piece of cake, wrapped in a napkin, through the crack, her voice quiet,
"Lily, you didn't eat dinner. This is for you."
"Mom got me strawberry cake, it's really good."
No answer from the room. She must have thought I was asleep, because she closed the door softly and went back to her own room.
I stared at the little piece of cake on the floor, and whispered in my heart,
"Thanks, Eliza."
