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"Jenny, dinner's ready!"

My mother, Gloria Chapman, called through the bedroom door, her voice laced with impatience.

I didn't move, not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't.

My eyes were swollen into narrow slits. My lips had ballooned so much that I couldn't close my mouth, and my throat felt as though someone had stuffed a burning lump of charcoal inside it. Every breath felt like inhaling embers.

"Jenny! Did you hear me? Dinner is ready! Come out now!" Mom yelled again, louder this time.

I could hear the irritation creeping into her voice. She was starting to lose her patience.

"Mom, she's throwing a fit again," my younger brother, Adrian Lupton, chimed in from the living room. "I just put a little peanut butter in her food as a joke." He laughed lightly, as if talking about something completely harmless.

A joke.

He said it so casually, as if putting peanut butter into the food of someone with a severe peanut allergy was just a fun little experiment, like dropping Mentos into Coke.

"Ade, you know your sister is allergic to peanuts. Why would you do that?" Mom's voice carried no anger. It sounded more like a helpless complaint.

"I just wanted to see what an allergic reaction actually looks like," Adrian said without a trace of guilt. "The books make it sound so scary. I think they were exaggerating."

"That's enough," Mom cut him off. "Jenny, come on out and eat. Don't be mad at your brother."

I didn't answer, not because I was sulking. I simply couldn't speak anymore.

My tongue had swelled, and the inside of my mouth felt like it was about to burst. When I forced my lips apart, all that came out was a muffled whimper, like a wounded animal's cry.

"Jenny, stop throwing a tantrum," Mom warned, her voice turning cold. "If you don't eat, you're only starving yourself. Don't expect us to bring food to your room."

Her footsteps faded away from the door.

A moment later, the sound of silverware clinking came from the dining room. The three of them had started dinner, together as a family.

Without me.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. There was a water stain up there shaped like a butterfly. I had stared at that stain countless times growing up. Whenever I was sad, I'd look at it until I stopped crying.

But this time, the tears kept sliding down my swollen cheeks.

Breathing became harder with every passing second. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, each thump sounding like someone knocking on a door that would never be opened.

My phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor. I closed my eyes.

Whatever. Maybe this was how it ended. Nobody cared anyway.

When my soul began to drift from my body, the first thought that crossed my mind was, "So, this is what dying feels like".