To Get My Mother's Love is My Greatest Desire

My brother Larry Moore and I were born on the same day.

Eight years ago, our birthday became his day of death.

On the day we turned eighteen, thugs held a knife to my throat, forcing me to call my mother, Miranda Moore.

"Mom, it's my birthday today. Can you at least say 'happy birthday' to me?"

My voice trembled, but she didn't notice anything amiss. As usual, her response was filled with rage and curses.

"You killed your own brother and still have the nerve to ask me to wish you a happy birthday? I hate you more than anything else in my life. I regret ever giving birth to you!"

That night, I truly died. The thugs tortured me mercilessly and then dumped my body in the trunk of a car, delivering it to the police as a grim token of their challenge.

Mom was summoned back overnight.

She spent three grueling days and nights piecing together the remains.

Only to discover that the body she had painstakingly assembled was that of her most despised son.

——

"The body was discovered by the cook this morning," Detective Captain Dylan West began as soon as Miranda walked in. "We contacted the delivery driver immediately, but he was drunk last night. He came over as soon as he sobered up, but the roads were under construction, so for now, we can only search for clues from the body."

Miranda nodded gravely, grabbed the paperwork, and made her way to the workspace.

"The killer deliberately delivered the body to the police station. It's like a direct challenge to us! Rest assured, I..."

Miranda froze the moment she saw the body. Even with years of experience and a hardened constitution, she was deeply shaken.

"Wh... what is this…"

Her shock was understandable. The condition of the body was horrific—torn apart by sharp blades, piece by piece.

"The cook found it this morning and was so terrified he called the police," Dylan said, his face ashen. A few of his assistants, hearing this, immediately retched in the corner.

"And breakfast today?" an intern started to ask but was cut off by Dylan's sharp rap on the head. "It's from outside," Dylan snapped.

"At least the killer brought the bones too," Dylan continued, "so you can piece them together and determine the basic information. This case is particularly brutal, and the higher-ups are very concerned. We don't have much time to solve it."

He turned to Miranda, his expression filled with regret. "Looks like you won't have time to celebrate the brothers' birthday today. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

When she heard my name, Miranda's previously stern demeanor shifted to disgust. "Murderers don't deserve birthdays! And don't you dare compare my Barry to him. He doesn't deserve it!"

I hovered nearby, my heart aching fiercely.

Eight years ago, I lost my brother in a brutal murder and, in turn, lost my mother. She had moved out of our home and adopted a new son.

During the final seconds of that phone call, I heard a "happy birthday" coming through the receiver. It wasn't for me but for her adopted son.

In her eyes, I was the murderer who killed her son and didn't deserve a shred of warmth. Yet, she could celebrate her adopted son's birthday on the anniversary of my brother's death.

If she knows this body was mine, will she blame me for ruining her adopted son's birthday?

I dreaded to think, hoping only that as she pieced together the body, she might find some closure for Larry's death and forgive me.

Dylan, aware of my family situation, was about to offer some comfort when Miranda interrupted him sharply. "Enough with the gloomy talk. Let's get to work."

Miranda quickly entered work mode.

She expertly used tools to wash, piece together, and examine my bones.

She was the best forensic pathologist in the city, once solving countless criminal cases alongside my father, David Moore, a legendary duo in the field. But that was all hearsay to me; I never met my father.

Miranda once said that Larry and I were the most precious legacies my father left her. Now, one was lost, and the other was being painstakingly reconstructed.

After ten grueling hours, Miranda managed to piece together most of my skeleton, but she was missing the left hand and the head.

Miranda's eyes were filled with sorrow as she sighed. "The deceased is male, estimated to be around eighteen to twenty years old. The malnutrition has left him with a small frame and numerous fractures.

"This method is highly specialized, indicating that the perpetrator must be a medical expert, at least someone familiar with human anatomy. We should investigate along those lines.

"Currently, the body is missing the head and left hand. These could hold some symbolic meaning or clues left by the killer.

"Confirm the victim's identity as soon as possible," Miranda's voice was icy but struck like a sledgehammer to everyone present. "I suspect it's someone the victim knew. The clear awareness during the torture indicates that you should be able to detect any stimulants used to agitate the nerves from the bones. The scratches on the bones are self-inflicted; he couldn't bear the pain.

"The killer took pleasure in the torture, treating the whole ordeal like a meticulously crafted piece of art."

The brutal nature of the revenge was almost inhuman.

Dylan, his face flushed with anger, suddenly yanked at his hair. "That monster! Gather the police and investigate as the coroner instructed!"

A pang of bitterness surged within me. Miranda was as formidable as the rumors suggested; every word she spoke was spot-on.

He had first used ether to knock me out, leaving me immobilized but still semi-conscious, before starting the torture.

By the time he made the call, I was already a skeleton, with only a sliver of awareness remaining.

In my final moments, he dragged me into a vat of sulfuric acid, causing my skin and bones to emit a ghastly white smoke.

It hurt so much; it was so disgusting.

Miranda's fingers traced down my bones, and suddenly, she paused over my femur, her expression shifting to something strange.

I held my breath. Could she be about to discover something?

My thigh had been severely fractured eight years ago, leaving a noticeable scar on the bone.

"There's a flower carved here!" Miranda exclaimed. "It's the same killer from before!"

I was stunned.

The killer from eight years ago, who had brutally murdered children.

David and Larry were both victims of that case. David was killed while chasing the killer, who cleverly escaped capture.

Eight years later, the killer struck my family again, binding Larry and me. Larry was slaughtered, and I barely survived until the police arrived.

The killer attempted to abduct me but jumped to his death while I was fighting back.

"Impossible. How could he still be alive?" Miranda muttered, her face etched with terror.

"No way, that psycho. Barry's in danger now. I need to go check on him."

I wanted to grab Miranda's sleeve, hoping she would look further down and see the scar on the leg bone.

I wanted her to know that the deceased was her son.

"They're at the same school. Tony..."

Dylan's words were cut off sharply by Miranda. "Don't mention him! If that killer got rid of him, that would be great. He should have died eight years ago!"

Miranda's contorted face loomed larger in my vision, her bitterness palpable.

My heart ached, and I instinctively let go of her sleeve.

Is that how much you hate me?

Without responding, Miranda walked away, brushing past my shoulder.

Just like eight years ago, when I was severely injured and reached out for her help, only to see her rush to Larry instead.