10
During my most rebellious teenage years, I
often thought, what if I just died? Would they
regret it? Would my mother shed a single
tear? Now I finally knew the answer.
After the officer finished speaking, Mom
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simply replied, “Oh,” and hung up. As if
nothing had happened, she went inside, put
the seafood away, and started preparing it. A
shrimp shell
cked her finger. She went to
the living room to get the first–aid kit. That’s
when Zach came in, his face pale. “Mom,
Ashley…”
“Oh, I just got a prank call. They said Ashley
was dead.” Mom said, rummaging for a
band–aid. “What a joke. Ashley’s living her
best life. Don’t these scammers do any
research?”
“Mom, it wasn’t a prank call… Ashley, she’s
really dead.” Zach’s voice choked with pain.
“The police called Dad and me. Dad’s on his
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way home.”
Mom froze. She looked up at Zach. Sunlight
streamed through the window, highlighting
the wrinkles around her eyes, the same eyes
that had always looked at me with coldness.
That unreadable expression remained on her
face as they took the train to Brookhaven, to
the police station miles away. Mom, usually
talkative, was strangely silent. Chloe took her
hand and whispered, “Mom, it’s okay. Ashley
wouldn’t want to see you like this.”
For the first time, Mom ignored her beloved
daughter, pulling her hand away. Chloe
stiffened, hurt and resentment flashing in her
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eyes.
At the police station, two officers greeted
them. The older one offered Mom some
words of comfort before telling her they had
found my body. “We’ve done our best to
reassemble her, but some body parts are
missing. According to the suspect’s
confession, they may have…” He paused, a
flicker of pity in his eyes.
Mom looked at him and finally spoke, “May
have what?”
“May have been… consumed.”
Mom just nodded. She was much calmer than
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the officers had expected. The younger
officer kept glancing back at her as they led
my family to the morgue.
My remains had been sewn together and
cleaned, but my face and features were
unrecognizable, my limbs swollen from
decomposition. The smell was overwhelming.
The moment Chloe saw me, she covered her
mouth and ran out, retching.
“The suspect, Kyle North, has been operating
in Brookhaven for the past two years,
committing three murders and
dismemberments,” the older officer explained.
“He targets young women living alone in the
city, stalking them for a period of time to
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ensure he won’t be detected. But this time,
the victim, Ashley Ashworth, wasn’t buried
deep enough. Heavy rains a few days ago
exposed her remains. Someone foraging for
mushrooms in the woods found her.”
I remembered. Why the man’s face had seemed familiar. About a month ago, I’d seen him near my office. It was a drizzly afternoon. As I left the building, Mom called about
Chloe’s wedding, ordering me to come home. I’d laughed. “No one’s contacted me for six months. Why should I come back now?”
Mom was furious. “Ashley! How dare you!
This is your home too!”
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Was it my home? The place where I slept on a
cot next to Chloe’s grand piano? Where Dad
would slam his chopsticks down and scold me
for being uncouth if I took the last chicken
wing? Where Mom would make me wash the
sofa cover if I stained it during my period?
That home?
“Mom,” I’d said, laughing before hanging up,
“I don’t have a home.”
A few steps away, in the drizzle, a man in a
black coat stood watching. When our eyes
met, he’d quickly looked away. But I was too
consumed by my own emotions to notice
anything unusual.
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A few steps away, in the drizzle, a man in a
black coat stood watching. When our eyes
met, he’d quickly looked away. But I was too
consumed by my own emotions to notice
anything unusual.
So he’d been watching me. He’d heard my
argument with Mom and decided I was an
easy target.
The pain from that night returned, this time a
phantom ache in my spectral form. I curled up
in the air, feeling like I was full of holes,
leaking wind.
It hurt.
く
The pain was worse than that night. Yet, I
couldn’t help but stare at Mom’s face, still
searching for a flicker of regret, of sorrow, of
even a fraction of the pain I felt.
The police took Mom to see the killer.
His motive was simple: his ex–girlfriend had left him for a richer man, even conning him out of all his money. He’d gone insane,
targeting women who vaguely resembled her.
Through the glass of the interrogation room,
under the harsh fluorescent lights, he looked
up at Mom and grinned, a chilling, knowing
smile.
Ho was a dood man walking and ho wanted
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He was a dead man walking, and he wanted
to take others down with him. He started
describing my final moments.
“She managed to grab her phone, even made
a call. Luckily, the person on the other end
hung up.”
“Was it you?”
“Your daughter looked so beautiful when she
cried. Even more like that bitch… That’s why
peeled her face off.”
“She screamed for her mommy. She was in
so much pain she couldn’t even cry.
<
The officer yelled, “Enough! Stop taunting the victim’s family!”
Mom stood there, spine straight, staring at
him. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry. I floated in
front of her, face to face. She couldn’t see
me, couldn’t hear me.
I said, “Mom, I hate you.”
That night, the night I was violated and
dismembered, I experienced the most
excruciating pain a human being could
endure. Blood flooded my vision, turning
everything red. I made desperate, animalistic
sounds. The wind, the insects, the rustling
loaves the fungi growing on damn wond
ון.
<
leaves, the fungi growing on damp wood… all
the sounds of the night became a deafening
drumbeat in my ears.
I kept screaming. Mommy. Mommy.
“Mommy, it hurts so much.”
“Help me, Mommy, please help me…”
In our most desperate moments, we
instinctively call out for our mothers, hoping
for a miracle.
But there was none. You were at home, in
your warm bed, dreaming of your beloved
Chloe getting married, of Zach’s promising
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future at a good university, studying a
lucrative major that guaranteed a good job. I
was never in your dreams.
10
After leaving the police station, they went to
my apartment to collect my belongings. I’d
lived and worked there for two years after
graduation. They had never visited.
In the car, Mom suddenly said, “Chloe.”
Chloe looked at her nervously, guilt flickering
in her eyes.
“Was that call Ashley made before she died…
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to you?”
Chloe opened her mouth but couldn’t speak.
Usually so quick–witted, she couldn’t find an
excuse. Finally, she said, “I had to wake up
early for hair and makeup, so I went to bed
early… I must have accidentally declined it in
my sleep.” She squeezed out a few tears,
feigning sadness.
Mom nodded and said nothing more, as if
she’d just asked casually. Of course. She
always called Chloe by her nickname. Me?
Just my name.
Sitting in the car, it took me a while to
recover from the phantom pain of my death.
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Chloe’s eyes were still slightly red. I drifted
into thought, remembering our names. Chloe,
the cherished first child. Zach, a gift from
heaven. And my name…
My name… My twin brother died less than 24
hours after we were born. The doctor said it
was organ failure due to underdevelopment in
the womb. At the hospital, an old woman
offered her opinion, “It’s the other baby who
stole all the nutrients. I’ve seen it before.
Look how healthy your daughter is.” Mom had
stared at me, resentment and confusion in
her eyes.
She still hadn’t named me by the time I turned
a month old. Then Grandma called. “The
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peach blossoms in front of the old house are
so beautiful this year. Let’s call her Ashley.”
Dad consulted a fortune teller. Peaches were
good, he said. Peachwood wards off evil,
could suppress my unlucky fate.
Silence filled the car. Zach finally broke it,
saying awkwardly, “I didn’t know Ashley was
so unlucky…”
Mom suddenly turned to him. “What did you
just call her?”
Zach froze. He always called Chloe “Sis,” and
me by my full name. It was an unspoken rule
in our family.
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“Ashley is your older sister. Your father and I
can call her that, but you can’t. It’s
disrespectful.”
Zach, spoiled his entire life, was taken aback.
He mumbled, “Mom, are we taking… are we
cremating Ashley and bringing her back?”
Mom gave him a cold look and said nothing.
My apartment was small and messy. A studio
apartment, the sofa and coffee table right
next to the bed. Half a dried–up grapefruit
sat on the coffee table. A blanket lay on the
sofa, books scattered across the floor. Zach,
with his mild OCD, clearly wanted to say
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something but held back, glancing at Mom.
Mom picked up a book on psychology, flipped
through the pages, her fingers tightening. The
chapters on self–destructive behavior and
dysfunctional families were heavily underlined.
The pages were loose, clearly read and
reread countless times. She opened a drawer
in the small cabinet. Hospital records, therapy
notes, empty pill bottles. At the bottom, a
small stack of plane and train tickets, mostly
to popular coastal tourist destinations.
The small room, crowded with four people,
felt heavy, the air thick with unspoken
tension. Chloe was the first to break the
silence. Pointing to a ticket to Miami, she
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said brightly, “Well, at least Ashley had some
fun before she died. She traveled more than
we did.”
It was one of her usual tactics – implying to
our family that I was always having fun
without them, that I was nice to everyone
else, not like the volatile mess I was at home
– further proof of my coldness and
ingratitude.
But today, it backfired. Mom whipped around,
her eyes icy. “Chloe…”
Before she could finish, Mom slapped her
hard across the face. Chloe was stunned.
Dad, always protective of Chloe, rushed to
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her side. “What’s going on? Why did you hit
her?”
Mom held my therapy notes in her hand.
-When did you start self–harming?
-Middle school.
-You feel no sense of belonging at home?
Why do you feel superfluous?
-When I was five, my sister told me I should
have died with my brother. If it wasn’t for me,
she’d be an only child, with all of Mom and
Dad’s love. Mom also said I was born bad,
that I killed my brother.
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-Do you have suicidal thoughts often? Does
your family…
Mom’s lips trembled, as if finally realizing the
pain she’d caused. “You pretended to be so
sweet in front of us…” her voice choked with
emotion, “what did you say to Ashley behind
our backs?”
Dad said disapprovingly, “Ashley was bad
luck. Chloe didn’t say anything wrong.”
“Shut up!” Mom shrieked, her face flushed.
Zach, worried about her health, rushed to
support her. “Dad! You know Mom has a
heart condition! Ashley’s dead! Why hit
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Chloe?”
Chloe, still reeling from the slap, stared at
Mom. Then, a sweet, venomous smile spread
across her face, like a flower dripping with
poison. “Mom, have you forgotten? I was just
a child, I didn’t know anything. You were the
one who told me Ashley killed her brother.”
Zach exploded. “Chloe! How dare you talk to
Mom like that!”
They stood there, facing each other, two
distinct camps, arguing and blaming each
other for my death in my tiny apartment. I
floated above the sofa, watching it all with
cold detachment. Then the doorbell rang.
