My brother, Theo Sorento, died in a plane crash on his way back home just to celebrate my birthday. They never found his body—only wreckage. Ever since, my parents forced me to kneel in front of his grave every year on my birthday, demanding that I repent for surviving when he didn’t.

Then came my eighteenth birthday.

I realized someone was following me. Panicked, I sent a few messages asking for help. Just then, Mom called, not to check on me but to lash out.

“I know exactly what you're doing. You’re just making up excuses so you don’t have to kneel in front of your brother’s grave! You’re a liar. Why wasn’t it you who died instead of him? You’re a walking curse!”

Before my phone was smashed under a boot, the last thing I heard was the cold click of her hanging up.

Then, I was cut up into pieces, and what was left of me was tossed across the city. My father, the lead forensic pathologist on my case, didn’t even recognize me.

Later, Theo returned alive with his wife, whom he had eloped with eight years ago.

When they found out the pile of rotting flesh was me, they all went insane.

When Dad got the emergency call to return to the precinct, they still hadn’t found all the pieces of my body scattered across the city.

Outside, thunder cracked and lightning tore through the sky. Rain poured in sheets, drowning the streets. Every available officer, along with K-9 units, was deployed to search the area.

Detective Foster stepped through the precinct doors, soaked and panting, holding a bloodied evidence bag.

“This bag didn’t get wet,” he said, handing it to my dad. “Jerry, see if there’s any trace DNA left on it. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Dad nodded and opened the bag. Inside were small, evenly sliced chunks of reddish-brown flesh.

In that instant, Dad’s eyes turned bloodshot. His breath grew ragged, like he was trying to keep his rage from boiling over.

“This bastard… This wasn’t just murder. These were cut off while the victim was still alive.”

It’s been eight years, and this was the first time I’d seen my dad cry for me.

Detective Foster’s face darkened, and he didn’t say anything.

Eventually, more body bags were brought in. Bit by bit, Dad reassembled my body. He didn’t sleep, and for nearly twenty-four hours straight, he worked hunched over the table under harsh fluorescent lights, eyes bloodshot and hands steady.

Piece by piece, a skinned, blood-red human form took shape.

Detective Foster couldn’t hold it in anymore. He turned and vomited in the sink. Then, wiping his mouth, he asked, “No skin? You think the killer was just trying to avoid leaving evidence?”

Dad took a deep breath and said, “No. This was torture. The victim was alive when they were skinned. The killer enjoyed watching them suffer.

“From the way the wounds look, I’d say they poured salt onto the exposed tissue and then kept cutting. They wanted to draw out the pain for hours. This wasn’t just a kill. This was sadism.”

That was my dad, Jerry Sorento, the city’s top forensic pathologist. He described my death with clinical precision, right down to the last scream.

“Psychopath,” Detective Foster cursed.

“The face is unidentifiable. The skin was peeled off, and what remained was soaked in acid. Based on dental wear, I’d say the victim was between 16 and 20 years old,” Dad continued. “And the killer kept all the remains except for the right leg. If I had to guess, that leg must’ve had something that could identify the victim. Maybe an old injury or surgery scar.

“He covered his tracks well, leaving behind zero prints or anything that could lead back to him. I can reconstruct the facial features from the skull, but it'll take time.”

Detective Foster placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder. His eyes drifted down to the missing leg, and then he frowned.

“Jerry, this is just like that case from eight years ago with the Rainstorm Butcher. It’s the same exact method.”

Dad froze. His gloved hands trembled.

Eight years ago, because Dad found evidence to expose him, the Rainstorm Butcher sabotaged the plane my older brother was on, killing them both.

Dad never got over it or spoke of it again.

“If this killer is connected to that man,” Detective Foster said, “you need to warn your wife to keep the family inside. If he hasn’t changed his pattern, his next target could be Lisa.”

Dad’s face twisted in a scowl as soon as he heard my name.

“She should’ve died a long time ago,” he said coldly.

That one sentence silenced the entire forensics lab. It hurt more than the knife that carved my flesh.

I thought eight years of rejection, blame, and emotional abuse might have softened his hatred, but I was wrong. He still wanted me dead.

“Jesus, Jerry,” Detective Foster snapped. “What if she hears you? What do you think that would do to her?”

“She can think whatever she wants. If she hadn’t begged Theo to come home for her birthday, he would’ve stayed hidden, and the Butcher wouldn’t have found him.” His voice cracked, raw with grief. “My boy was only eighteen… And we never even found his remains. My wife and I have been climbing that damn mountain for eight years, hoping to find anything that belonged to our son!”

They had made sure to carve those words into my memory over the years, accusing me again and again of being the reason my brother died.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dad at Theo’s funeral, gripping my throat, yelling, “Why wasn’t it you?”

And honestly, I asked myself the same thing. If I had died instead, maybe I’d still be the little girl my parents used to love.

Detective Foster let out a long sigh. “Theo’s gone, Jerry. Are you seriously going to wait until something happens to Lisa before you regret this?”

I looked at Dad, silently hoping for an answer.

Instead, he muttered, “Let something happen to her. Wouldn’t that be best?”

And just like that, the last flicker of light in me went out.

I thought to myself, ‘Now that I’m dead, Dad, are you happy?’

Just then, a young officer entered, holding a small, bloodied phone charm—a little plush lamb, stained red.

Dad glanced at it and waved it off. “It’s just a regular keychain. Run the blood. See if it matches the victim.”

My heart dropped as I stared at him. It turned out he had forgotten that the charm was his gift to me.

Back then, Dad’s job made him a target, and he made dangerous enemies. One day, while Mom and I were out running errands, two men on motorcycles tried to kidnap us off the sidewalk. Mom clung to one of them, refusing to let go. They dragged her across the asphalt for over thirty feet.

Dad came to save us, and one of them stabbed him in the chest. After that, the department assigned us full-time protection, and once Dad was out of the hospital, he handed me a tiny plush lamb keychain, which hid a high-voltage stun device inside.

He taught me how to use it, over and over, until I could flip the switch in my sleep. I still remember how he ruffled my hair and smiled, saying, “Even if I’m not there, you’ll be able to protect yourself.”

Yet now, he’d forgotten the gift, and it was just a “regular keychain.”

“Dad, you just tossed away your last chance to recognize me,” I muttered to myself.

Later, when things calmed down, Dad checked his phone and saw the emergency message I had sent before I died. Without hesitation, he called Mom.

For a second, I thought, maybe now they’d realize what happened. However, he scoffed instead.

“How many times has she pulled this stalking crap? I can’t believe Lisa has the nerve to text me that again! Tell her to kneel at Theo’s grave, and maybe she’ll finally learn something.”

I tried telling him, “No, Dad. I wasn’t lying. I really was in danger. That corpse you put together? That was me. Please, just believe me for once…”

He just frowned, irritated.

I prayed Mom would feel differently and worry, but she was just as cold. After all, ever since that night eight years ago—when I was stalked and Dad accused me of lying—I’d never dared to send another emergency message.

Mom started off calm, telling Dad not to get too worked up, but then her tone shifted—sharp and cold.

Mom said. “I got that annoying message, too. She can’t go a day without causing drama. I’ve texted to tell her to kneel in front of Theo’s grave for two days and not even think about coming home. I’m sick of seeing her face.”

They talked about me like I was a stain they couldn’t scrub out. Dad then reminded Mom to double-check the locks and keep the house secure, but they never once wondered if something had really happened to me.

I curled up against the wall, numb. My heart felt like it had caved in. They didn’t even care that I was gone.

Then, outside the lab, a familiar voice broke through the silence. “I want to file a missing person’s report! My friend Lisa Sorento has been missing for two days!”

In the precinct lobby, my one and only friend—and deskmate—Melissa Benjamin was talking to an officer.

She explained how my phone wasn’t going through, and I’d completely ghosted her on a day we were supposed to meet. Her eyes were red and brimming with tears, and just watching her fall apart made my heart twist painfully.

I instinctively reached out to wipe her tears, but my hand passed right through her cheek. Frozen, I stared at her face, then laughed through the tears in my own eyes.

‘Thank you. Thank you for showing up. Thank you for not giving up on me,’ I thanked her.

While the officer was asking for my parents’ contact information, Dad walked into the lobby. He barely spared Melissa a glance before cutting in, “No need to follow up. I’m Lisa’s father. She’s not missing. She got grounded for messing up and isn’t allowed to hang out with her little gang of bad influences.”

He emphasized those last five words, and I saw the blood drain from Melissa’s face as she looked down in humiliation.

She wasn’t a bad influence! She was the one who always draped her coat over my head when I was hiding and crying; she was the one who would pretend to be full so I’d have something to eat; she was the one who once chased a bully across the playground with a mop dipped in toilet water; she was the one who grabbed my hand when the whole class ignored me and said, “Guess it’s just us two against the world. Cool girls only.”

Melissa wasn’t a bad influence. She was my best and only friend.

However, Dad was respected in the precinct, and no one questioned his word. My disappearance was brushed aside once again.

I watched as Melissa left the station looking lost and crushed, and I couldn’t stop the tears rolling down my face. I tried to chase after her, but I was trapped beside my father like a ghost tethered to his presence.

I followed him back to the lab and then back home. Dinner was already on the table when we got in. The same as always, there were grilled fish, cajun crab legs, and buttered shrimp.

My mother remembered all of my brother’s favorite dishes, yet she always seemed to forget that I was allergic to seafood. Dad had once asked me why I wasn’t eating, and I thought—naively—that he was finally starting to care.

I had clutched the napkin and said carefully, “Dad, I’m allergic to seafood…”

Mom slammed her fork down and jabbed a finger at my face. “What kind of ungrateful brat complains about food someone else worked hard to cook?”

I looked at Dad—my hero, the man who used to protect me when Mom got like this.

However, all he did was put a giant piece of crab on my plate and mutter, “Just eat. Don’t piss off your mom.”

Their eyes cornered me, and it felt like not eating would be a crime. Hence, I ate it all.

That night, my throat swelled so badly I couldn’t breathe. My vision blurred; my skin burned and itched all over.

“Help… me…”

My voice was nearly gone. I staggered to the door, clawing at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic gripped me, and I pounded on the door, desperate.

“Help! Please! Mom… Dad… Help me! I don’t want to die…”

Then, I heard Mom’s voice from the living room.

“She’s just having a reaction. She’ll be fine. Good thing I locked the door. She’s always pretending to be pitiful. It makes me sick.” Then, she added cheerfully, “By the way, Theo said in my dream last night he wants the new gaming console. Let’s hurry before the mall closes.”

I tried screaming, “No, don’t go! Mom. Dad. Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to–”

The front door slammed shut, and just like that, I was left alone.

I curled up in the corner, heart slowing, breath fading. At that moment, I thought maybe dying would hurt less than that.

Downstairs, I heard the voices of a father and daughter laughing.

“You little troublemaker. You knew you were allergic to peanuts. Why’d you eat them anyway?”

“I’m sorry, Dad! I didn’t mean to! Don’t tell Mom, please!”

“She already knows. She was worried sick, so she rushed to cook a feast for you. We’re just glad you’re okay. No parent holds a grudge against their kid.”

I felt like a filthy, envious parasite eavesdropping on someone else’s joy. However, I couldn’t help it. I, too, wanted parents who cared that I was allergic, cooked meals I liked, and fussed, hovered, and loved me.

Instead, I was the girl who killed her brother and the kid no one wanted or loved.

‘But Mom, Dad, I didn’t want to die. Please believe me… I really don’t want to die.’

I didn’t die that day.

At the last second, I jumped out the window, where someone found me and rushed me to the hospital. The doctors said I was lucky. Any later, I would’ve been gone for good.

The woman in the bed next to me peeled an orange for her daughter while glancing my way. “Thank God you’re okay. Your parents must’ve been worried sick!”

I watched with envy as she peeled an orange, gently separating each slice and feeding them to her daughter one by one. The reflection in the hospital window showed just how alone I was.

Still, I tried to convince myself, or maybe I was trying to convince the whole world. I laughed and said out loud, “Yeah… My mom and dad love me so much.”

Suddenly, the hospital door slammed open. I turned and saw Mom and Dad rushing in, faces full of panic and urgency.

A wave of emotion flooded over me. I forced myself to sit up despite the pain, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Mom… Dad…”

I was terrified. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted someone to hold me, even just for a second.

Instead, Mom grabbed me by the collar and yanked me off the bed. The IV needle ripped from my arm, and blood sprayed out like a broken faucet.

“You ingrate!” she shouted. “You faked an allergic reaction and jumped out a damn window just so everyone would think we abuse you? You want the whole town to pity you, huh? You want to ruin our names, huh? Why didn’t you just die when you jumped?”

I curled into a ball, shielding my head as her kicks landed again and again.

I never wanted to hurt anyone. I just didn’t want to die. I had gambled on surviving a fall from the third floor and won, but I didn’t win against my parents’ hatred.

Through the glass window, I saw Dad leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching coldly as Mom clawed at me. The woman in the next bed held her frightened daughter close, whispering softly to comfort her.

More people had gathered outside the room, peering in with judgment in their eyes. They looked at me with disgust, like they were looking at a monster. In an instant, the fragile illusion I had built that maybe my parents still loved me was shattered before everyone.

I lied. My mom and dad didn’t love me. They never did.

After that, they cut me off. I was given no more allowance or rides to school, so I applied to live on campus.

My meals were just plain buns from the cafeteria, with some watery soup that was free. I slept in a 16-person dorm on a straw mat with a thin blanket. Every penny of my tuition and housing came from scholarships I fought to earn each semester.

As I moved up to middle school and then high school, the fees got steeper. Hence, I studied harder, day and night, with no breaks. Every mark mattered as each test could buy me a little more time to survive.

I thought if I became the best, maybe they’d love me again. However, even when I brought home perfect test scores and the visiting relatives praised me, Mom didn’t hesitate to shut it all down.

“She’s as dumb as a rock. She’s nothing like Theo. There’s no way she got those grades honestly.”

Then came the slap.

“Tell me. Who’d you cheat off of?”

My face burned, not just from the sting, but from the shame. I wanted to disappear.

Later, when my teacher called to confirm the scores, Mom barely glanced at the torn-up pieces of my exam lying in the trash.

“What’s there to brag about?” she muttered. “Your brother had perfect marks in every subject, unlike you, flaunting this pitiful result. It’s embarrassing.”

Just like that, my heart was ripped up along with that paper.

If they loved a child as perfect and smart as my brother, I would erase myself and become like him. With that thought, I pushed even harder.

Season after season, my body fought off rashes, frostbite, and mosquito bites, each one returning like clockwork. Still, I never let up.

When I finally walked out of my SAT, I thought I finally had a chance to prove myself to be as smart as my brother. For that, they’d love me, right?

However, I died the day before the results came out. Even in death, I never got to become the daughter they loved as much as my brother.

I watched as Mom and Dad filled an empty plate with food, carefully setting it in front of his seat, just like they’d done for the past eight years. They spoke to him softly, giving him the best cuts of meat and the warmest dishes.

That was when I realized they still weren’t over it, and maybe that was my fault. After all, I was the reason he died, so maybe I was supposed to die, too.

Then, I heard a knock at the door, and a familiar voice rang out from the past.

“Mom, Dad! Open up! I brought your daughter-in-law home!”

Dad, usually so composed, stood up so fast he knocked over the bowl, while Mom collapsed back into the chair, tears pouring down her face.

She kept asking Dad, “Is it him? Is it really him?”

Dad walked to the door, his hands trembling on the knob, frozen in disbelief.

When he finally opened it, there he was, standing right there in the doorway—tall and alive. He was the brother I had killed eight years ago…