Chapter 2

I was screaming just like those spoiled brats who would freak out at public places, and I still remembered how my parents looked at me.

I didn't try to escape when Gio's slaps landed repeatedly, while Bea kept sobbing without stopping him.

It was Stella who stopped him, running over and shielding me with her thin, frail body.

"Stop, Dad!" she cried, her voice cracking. "It's all my fault… It's all my fault…"

Later that night, she sneaked into the room and gave me a piece of candy she was hiding.

I saw the red gash on her wrist, which she got when she shielded me.

"Sorry, Tina," she whispered just then, poking my swollen cheeks. "I'll be gone soon… And then no one will take anything from you.

-

In the living room, Bea lovingly touched Stella's cheek, her fingers brushing her bangs.

"Don't worry about her, Stella," she said wearily. "That child has been jealous of you as soon as she learned to talk. You know that."

I was stunned, but it was true.

I was jealous of Stella for getting all the love and all the new dresses, and for the way our mom was always hovering around her every day.

I was jealous that she would always be our parents' favorite as long as she was alive.

I floated toward them, reaching for Bea's hand to tell her that I was really sick and that my head hurt.

However, my fingers passed through her as if it was air.

I was left hovering in mid-air, staring blankly at my pale fingers.

Then, I turned toward the storeroom door, which was tightly shut with faint light spilling out from underneath.

I floated over, passing through it, and found myself curled up among the junk.

So, I was already dead, even before Stella's death timer reached zero.

Memories then flooded my mind, with a scent of dusky nostalgia.

Back when I was around five, I really hated Stella.

If there was one piece of candy in the house, it would be hers.

If there was one apple, it would be sliced in two, but the much bigger slice would go to Stella, while the other went to me.

New clothes always went to Stella, while I wore hand-me-downs with patches and loosened needlework.

Even bedtime stories belonged to Stella.

Bea's voice was always so tender as she read stories like The Little Prince or Andersen's fairy tales, telling Stella and only Stella about the stars and the moon.

I would hide outside the door to listen.

"What story would you like to hear tonight, Stella?" Bea would ask.

"The Little Mermaid," Stella would reply.

And Bea would start right away, her voice a calm, soothing creak in the night.

I sat outside, curled up and listened to those beautiful words, my heart squeezed tight.

Why didn't I get bedtime stories too?

When I was seven, a neighbor gave us chicken in the summer.

Bea made soup with it, with the drumsticks boiled to a golden sheen.

As we ate, Bea gingerly put both drumsticks on Stella's plate, saying, "Eat more, Stella. It's good for your health."

Staring at the tiny portions on my own plate, I burst into tears as I cried, "Why does Stella get both? I want some chicken too."

Gio slammed his fork violently on the table right then.