To everyone else, she was a delicate, fragile flower – a precious gem that needed to be handled with care, a girl who would shed tears over a dead butterfly on the roadside, saying, “How tragic.”
But only I knew her true nature.
To frame me, she once killed my pet kitten.
How did she do it? She tore out its intestines and gutted it, then tossed the remains into the studio where I worked part-time.
She stood in front of everyone and cried, “Oh my God, Evelyn! How could you treat your pet like this?”
Then she ran into Jim’s arms, sobbing, “Sister, I know you don’t like animals, but you could have given it away instead of killing it!”
That day, I felt like I was suffocating, as if I were dying.
I went at her in a rage, desperate to avenge my kitten.
But no one would listen to me. They all stood behind Emma, supporting her.
I became the monster who abused animals, condemned and ridiculed by everyone.
How could I possibly learn to be as cruel and deceitful as Emma?
A wave of nausea washed over me as the alcohol took hold, and I felt disoriented.
I could barely make out the mocking voices around me, along with Jim’s cold, indifferent tone: “For someone as wicked as you, you should learn from Emma’s kindness.”
When I woke up, it was already the next morning.
The partygoers were long gone, leaving behind nothing but a mess.
I picked myself up off the floor, my head pounding from the alcohol. It took a while before the memories of the previous night started to come back.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
I’d drunk too much and passed out – just like before. No one cared. They just left me there, as always, to fend for myself.
Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through my chest. I doubled over, clutching my mouth as I coughed until a metallic taste filled my throat.
The warm, salty blood pooled in my mouth, seeping through my fingers.
I paused, then pulled out my phone and called a cab to take me to the hospital.
When the doctor saw me, he greeted me with a familiar nod. “Miss Jones,” he said, “back for more medication?”
Late-stage leukemia.
I’d been dealing with this for a long time.
This was Dr. Sam Harding, my primary physician.
I’d heard that if his child were still alive, he would’ve been a gentle, loving father. But fate wasn’t kind – his child died in a car accident at the age of six.