Stole My Sight, Lived My Life

The moment the heart monitor flatlined, I thought my life was over.

Scenes flashed across my mind, finally settling on the moment I pulled open the door and saw Everly Wallace for the first time.

The day she arrived, I was sipping on some imported medicine, curled up on the huge cashmere couch in the living room.

The door opened, letting in a draft carrying the dusty scent of the countryside.

Everly stood in the doorway, looking thin, gaunt, and almost weed-like. Her clothes were worn, and her fingers clutched a tattered cloth bag. Her eyes were dull and cloudy—just like mine, yet entirely different.

"This is your sister, Everly," my mother, Jessie Dillard, said flatly without making a move to pull her in.

Everly didn't say a word. She just kept her head low.

I quickly realized Mom didn't seem to like her at all.

Looking at this girl who shared 90% of my face, I felt an odd heaviness press down on my chest. From that day on, I gave her everything I had, including new dresses, imported chocolates, and my favorite rag doll.

Everly took the small, north-facing bedroom, while I got the master suite.

The family always gathered around me, laughing and chatting, constantly piling the best food on my plate.

When it came to Everly, Mom would simply say, "She can reach it herself."

Her tone was ice cold as she spoke.

I knew they doted on me because I had a heart condition. Not living past 18 was my biggest secret.

When I was ten, Mom and Dad brought Everly home, introducing her as my blind twin sister. They called her a gift from God.

But everyone quietly whispered in my ear that Everly was brought here just to keep me alive.

And I believed them, so I treated her with everything I had. I wanted to make it up to her and compensate with every bit of myself.

Behind our backs, our maid, Brielle Mays, would say, "Ms. Juliet is a treasure. Ms. Everly is just trash."

I overheard it, and it only made me give Everly more.

Once, holding her hand, I guided her through the house, step by step.

"Velvet curtains.

"A glass vase. Cold to the touch."

I led her hand over the piano keys. A sharp note burst out, making her flinch, but curiosity quickly pulled her hand back to the keys.

That afternoon, we sat on the carpet in my room, bathed in warm sunlight.

For some reason, I grabbed her hand and pressed it gently against the left side of my chest.

"Everly, feel this." I smiled. "It's a heartbeat."

Her cold hand rested quietly against my skin.

After a moment, she took my hand and placed it on her own chest. I could feel her steady, powerful heartbeat, so unlike my own fragile one.

I froze. We shared the same blood, the same face, even the same rhythm of our hearts.

Yet my heart was dying. And Everly, fully alive, was trapped in darkness.

As I clutched her hand, a sharp pang twisted through my chest. That sentence that had haunted me for years—"Everly only existed to keep me alive"—stung like a thorn.

At that moment, my resolve wavered. Was all my kindness toward her meant to save her… or to kill her?