My Heart Rots Inside My Brother's Chest

I floated in mid-air, watching everything unfold below.

The shadowless surgical lights cast a harsh, blinding glare onto my bloodless face. Erika Buckley calmly covered my face with a surgical drape.

She turned to my father and said, "Marcus, hurry up. Don't keep Caleb waiting."

Caleb Buckley was my brother. He lay on another operating table nearby, his chest cut wide open, waiting for my heart.

Marcus Buckley nodded, his hands trembling slightly.

He picked up a large black medical waste bag and expertly stuffed my body inside. The heavy plastic rustled softly against my cold skin.

I was the adopted daughter of the Buckley family.

When I was ten, Caleb fell down the stairs and split his head open. Without hesitation, Erika held me down while Marcus drew blood from my arm to save him.

My vision went black, and I collapsed onto the floor. When I woke up, they were huddled around Caleb's bed, showering him with care while not a soul looked at me.

From that day on, I became Caleb's dedicated blood bank.

...

Erika picked up a high-pressure sprayer and began rinsing my blood off the operating table. The water rushed violently down the drain, carrying away every trace of my blood.

She cleaned it so meticulously and so thoroughly.

"Emily finally proved her worth," she muttered, her cold voice sending a shiver through my soul.

Beside her, Caleb's heart monitor emitted a steady, powerful rhythm. A sense of relief finally washed over Marcus and Erika, and they smiled so happily.

It was an expression I had never seen on their faces before. At least, it had never been directed at me.

Ever since we were kids, Caleb had loved competing with me for everything: toys, snacks, and even hugs from Erika.

Once, he broke my favorite doll, and I cried. Erika walked over, but instead of comforting me, she slapped me hard across the face.

"You're the older sister! Why can't you just let your brother have it?"

In reality, I was the younger sister.

To make Caleb feel justified in taking my blood, they lied to everyone, claiming I was two years older than him.

...

Marcus dragged the bag containing my corpse out to the garage. He was going to drive to the hospital where he worked and throw my body into the incinerator designated for medical waste.

My soul floated after him, desperately trying to touch his hand, but my fingers passed right through him. There was nothing I could do. That sense of helplessness hurt worse than the scalpel cutting through my chest.

The garage door rolled up slowly, and Marcus started the car. I watched the black trash bag get tossed into the trunk.

I had never really been their daughter. I was just medicine—a cure used to save their beloved son.

Erika walked into Caleb's room and gently tucked the blanket around his shoulders, her eyes brimming with maternal love.

My soul floated beside her, greedily soaking in the sight. She had never looked at me like that. Not even once.

I remembered a time when I had a burning fever, so delusional that I reached out, wanting her to hold me. She just shoved me away with disgust.

"Don't spread your germs to us!"

Despair and icy coldness had engulfed me back then, and now that I was dead, the feeling was only sharper.

I didn't follow Marcus's car. My soul floated back down to that subterranean operating room.

Caleb's diseased, failing heart was tossed carelessly into a stainless-steel tray. It had stopped beating, its tissue dark and decayed.

I stared down at it coldly.

...

The next day, Caleb woke up.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting slanting shadows across his face. His fingers twitched, and then his eyes snapped open.

"I... I'm still alive?" he murmured in disbelief.

Erika walked in carrying a bowl of soup, her face lit up with a smile. "Of course, you're alive, sweetheart! How could I ever let you die?"