Chapter 2 Abusive Parent

"When you have time? You never have time! I bet you just want to hand this little slut off to me so you can sleep around all you want! Well, you can forget it! I hope she dies here today. That way, we don't have to care about her anymore!"

Every harsh word that came out of her mouth was a knife through my heart. It was an old argument, but my ears still rang with white noise. I couldn't hear anything aside from their screaming.

So, I did the only thing I could and hobbled off to the corner of the house to lie on the children's bed my parents had gotten me when I was little.

Then, I closed my eyes as silent tears drenched my pillow. My body curled into itself just to lessen the pain as I comforted myself with a familiar voice in my mind.

I was trying my best to mimic Selina's demeanor as I whispered to myself, "Sleep, Zestina. Sleep, and the pain goes away."

Perhaps God had granted my prayer, because I felt no pain when I woke up.

However, I quickly noticed I was hovering in the air. Oh... I was dead. Suddenly, a mysterious force grabbed my soul and yanked me to Selina's side.

It was late at night.

My parents had stormed off in a huff after another one of their belligerent arguments. She returned to the new house she had bought after the divorce so she could adopt Zoe Riverson. It wasn't big, but it was warmly decorated.

Zoe was in bear pajamas, sitting on the edge of her bed. My usually proud mother was on the ground, gently washing Zoe's feet. I stared at this scene in stunned silence, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

I was reminded of my life before death. Forget washing my feet; Selina would fly into a rage if I even dared to breathe her way.

I had to wear shoes that didn't fit me for my grandmother's birthday last year.

Zoe tripped me, causing me to stumble and nearly fall ass backwards. I tried to grab Selina's sleeve to keep myself up, but she flung me away and slapped me.

She had looked at me with such disgust in her eyes, but the shrill words that came out of her lips crushed my dignity.

"How dare you touch me! Your father sleeps with random women every day! God knows if you're infected like him!"

I stood there helplessly, my eyes filled with tears. My grandmother sighed and wiped my tears away out of pity. She tried to comfort me and said Selina only reacted so harshly because she was a clean freak.

Unfortunately, I knew that wasn't the case. Selina was repulsed by me, not Zoe. She had never once yelled at Zoe, even when Zoe got her hands dirty and sticky. Instead, she would gently hold Zoe's hand and carefully wipe the grime off her palms.

My interactions with my own biological mother were so bleak that I couldn't imagine her smiling at me, much less treating me with such care.

Still, I was now stuck here watching whatever this torment was. Once she was done washing Zoe's feet, she carefully wiped Zoe dry. Then, she got in bed, held Zoe in her arms, and opened a storybook.

The pages of the book were wrinkled at the edges. It was obvious that it'd been read very frequently. It seemed that Selina was capable of telling bedtime stories, and I had no clue she even possessed such skill.

Well, now I knew. She spent more than an hour telling her new daughter bedtime stories. She didn't snap at Zoe even when the girl would ask stupid questions from time to time. Instead, Selina would patiently answer all her questions.

I envied Zoe and felt rather pathetic. I used to think Selina hated talking. Sometimes she would go into a rage and tell me to shut up just because I babbled a bit too much. She even threatened to sew my mouth shut so I could never speak again.

Now, my hypothesis had gone poof. It wasn't that she hated talking; she just didn't want to talk to me. After Zoe fell asleep, Selina wore an apron and got busy even though it was late at night.

It took me seeing a small, delicate cake form between her hands to realize that it was Zoe's birthday. And so, I watched Selina decorate the room with streamers and take out the presents she bought for Zoe with a bitter feeling filling my heart.

I was ten years old and dead when I learned that a child could actually have homemade cake during their birthdays. Children who were loved could actually receive presents that had thought and care put into them.