Chapter 3

The living room fell dead silent for a second.

Then, Mom let out a sharp, mocking laugh. There was no warmth in her eyes.

"Dying? Good," she pointed at the front door, her voice dripping with venom. "Then go die somewhere else. Don't do it in this house. You'll ruin my expensive carpets. You're nothing but an eyesore!"

Dad’s lips parted, but he closed them. He turned his head away, sighing. "Chloe, stop throwing tantrums. Go to your room. Don't ruin Julian’s mood."

I looked at them and smiled. But large, hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

Right. How could I forget? I didn't even have the right to be sick in this house. How could I deserve to die in front of them?

I turned around, dragging my heavy legs, and went up to my small attic bedroom.

Deep inside my closet, there was a locked wooden box.

I unlocked it with the key I kept under my pillow. Inside were all my "treasures."

A fountain pen Dad gave me for my tenth birthday.

The only gold star sticker my kindergarten teacher had ever awarded me.

And a crescent-shaped white seashell I found on the beach when I was five.

I took the crumpled diagnosis sheet and placed it inside the box, right next to those treasures.

The doctor’s words echoed in my head: "Kid, you came too late.

The cancer has already metastasized... Surgery won't do much now. Chemotherapy might prolong your life a little, but the process will be extremely painful... Still, I suggest you inform your family and get admitted."

Prolonging my life... would be extremely painful.

And my family wanted me to die somewhere else.

I looked at the glass of cold water on my desk. Quietly, I pulled out the bottle of strong painkillers the doctor had prescribed—the ones with severe side effects. I poured the entire contents into my palm.

Mom, I won't annoy you anymore.

This time, I'll do exactly what you want.

The sweet coating of the pills started melting against my sweaty palm, feeling sticky.

I threw my head back and swallowed them all, wash down with the cold water, like swallowing handfuls of candy.

There was no bitterness. Just a numb, mechanical sensation.

Very quickly, my stomach began to burn like fire. It was a violent, tearing pain, worse than anything I had ever felt before.

Mom always said taking medicine makes the pain go away. But I took the whole bottle. Why did it hurt so much?

I collapsed onto my desk, my body curling into tight spasms. Cold sweat instantly soaked my thin school uniform.

I bit my bottom lip hard, refusing to let out a single sound.

Downstairs, the front door clicked shut. Then came the sound of the car engine revving.

The three of them were leaving for the airport.

They were heading to the grand, glorious hall that belonged to Julian.

While I was left behind in this freezing, dark room, walking toward death all by myself.

My phone screen lit up. It was an Ins post from Mom.

In the photo, the airport's VIP lounge was brightly lit and luxurious.

Mom was holding Dad’s arm, smiling elegantly and happily.

Julian stood between them, wearing a perfectly tailored little tuxedo, making a peace sign at the camera.

The caption read: "Leaving all the bad luck behind! Off we go! Pre-congratulations to my little pianist. Play your heart out at the Golden Hall! You are Mommy's eternal pride!"

"My pride... leaving the bad luck behind..."

So, I was the bad luck.

That spot in Vienna was supposed to be mine.

I had played piano since I was six. Day and night, I practiced until my fingertips bled. I would wrap them in tape and keep playing.

Meanwhile, Julian only sat at the piano when he was in a good mood.

Our school only had one spot for the program. At the auditions, I played "La Campanella", a piece I had practiced thousands of times.

All the judges gave me the highest score.

But when the final list came out, the name on it was Julian Carter.

I had run to the music teacher to ask why. He avoided my gaze, stammering, "Chloe, this was... a decision made by the school board after looking at the overall picture."

I ran home and, for the first time in my life, yelled at Mom. "Why? Why did you steal my spot?"

Mom was packing Julian's bags. She didn't even look up. Her tone was completely casual. "What do you mean 'steal'? You're the older sister. Isn't it normal to let your brother have it?"

"Julian needs this opportunity to rebuild his confidence. It's good for his PTSD. You owe him this."

"Besides, your brother is naturally more talented than you. It would be a waste to send you."

...At that moment, I realized my entire life was a joke.

The burning pain in my stomach flared up again. A thick, copper taste rushed up my throat.

I clamped my hand over my mouth and forced the blood back down.

I couldn't throw up.

If I threw up, I might survive, and then they'd have to spend money on getting my stomach pumped.

Mom always said I was a burden.

I didn't want to burden them anymore.