Chapter 3

Dad's footsteps fading down the stairs pulled me out of my memories, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

I stared at his retreating figure, my lips trembling.

"Dad…"

But I never managed to call out to him as my eyes slowly fluttered shut.

By the time I became aware of my surroundings again, Heather Reed, Mom's best friend, had already arrived with her medical staff in tow. They were gathered in the living room.

I first met Heather around the holidays last year. She had come to visit Mom with a fruit basket, and I was immediately sent out of the room.

I was afraid Mom might get upset if she saw me, so I secretly hid beneath the windowsill and listened to their conversation.

"I brought your medication. Take it the same way you always do."

Mom hesitated before asking, "Does it… have any side effects?"

"Real medication does. This stuff doesn't, so don't worry. Clarence won't find out—"

A burst of fireworks suddenly went off nearby, drowning out whatever Heather said next.

Nevertheless, the conversation left me with a question I could never shake.

What exactly was Mom taking? Was she really sick?

Mom suddenly burst into tears again. She collapsed into Dad's arms and curled against him, trembling all over. "I know what I did was wrong, but I didn't mean to do it. If she hadn't snuck around wearing that dress, I wouldn't have hit her… I'm a terrible person. I'm sorry!"

As she cried, she began slapping herself across the face.

Dad looked heartbroken. He pressed his forehead against hers and hurried to comfort her. "This is all Trina's fault! She deserved to be punished!"

Heather chimed in from beside them, "Exactly. If a kid misbehaves, there have to be consequences."

As she turned away, she glanced toward the floor and suddenly froze. "Why is there… blood over there?"

Everyone turned toward the corner.

There was indeed a dark stain on the floor, already beginning to dry. Smears stretched away from it and disappeared around the corner toward the stairs.

Dad's brows drew together, but before he could say anything, Preston spoke up.

"That's not blood. Mom's cat knocked over some ketchup. It just looks like blood."

The tension that had filled the room vanished almost instantly, and Dad's expression relaxed again.

All of a sudden, my phone started buzzing from somewhere near the corner.

Preston walked over, picked it up, and answered.

The voice of my homeroom teacher, Louise Farrow, came through the phone. "Hello, may I speak to Trina Jenner? I'm her homeroom teacher."

At that, Preston turned toward the stairs and yelled, "Trina, quit playing dead! Your teacher's looking for you!"

He waited several seconds.

When I didn't come downstairs, he scoffed impatiently. "She's pulling this crap again."

Dad snatched the phone from him and asked coldly, "What is it?"

"It's Trina's birthday today. Her classmates planned a birthday party for her…" Ms. Farrow explained.

"A birthday party? So that's why she's been causing trouble all day and insisting on wearing that dress! She upset my wife so badly that she's sick again. Trina's not available, and don't organize any more of this nonsense for her!"

Dad ended the call and tossed the phone aside without a second thought, like he had done countless times before.

My classmates, my friends, and even our neighbors had all been driven away like that.

Mom hated me, and she hated anyone who tried to get close to me.

Whenever someone came looking for me, she would chase them away with a broom. Then, as soon as Dad and Preston came home, she would run to them and complain that I had brought bad influences into the house just to upset her.

She would even show them the bruises she had pinched into her own skin.

Little by little, the way Dad and Preston looked at me grew colder.

Eventually, my friends stopped coming around altogether, and only then did Mom stop.

I grew up in that prison until there was barely any life left in me.

Come to think of it, maybe dying wasn't such a bad thing. At least I wouldn't have to spend every waking moment treading on thin ice.

Suddenly, someone pointed toward the staircase and cried, "Look! What's that over there?"

A thin streak of dark red liquid was slowly creeping down the stairs. Under the harsh white lights overhead, it looked deeply unsettling.

Just then, my phone started ringing again from where Dad had thrown it into the corner.

He walked over, picked it up, and barked into the phone, "I told you to stop calling—"

His voice abruptly cut off.

Then, he spoke again, sounding almost as if what he'd heard was too ridiculous to believe.

"What did you just say? My daughter has leukemia? How is that possible?"