My brother died in a plane crash, rushing home for my birthday. Every year after, my parents made me kneel at his grave and apologize.

On my eighteenth birthday, I was being followed. Terrified, I texted them. Mom called, her voice laced with venom. "You’re just making excuses to get out of apologizing to your brother! Liar! Why couldn't it have been you who died?!"

The line went dead as the attacker’s boot crushed my phone. He dismembered me, scattering my remains across the city. My father, the forensic pathologist assigned to the case, didn’t even recognize me.

Later, my brother returned, triumphant, with the woman he’d eloped with eight years earlier. When they learned the mangled remains were mine…they lost it.

…

Dad was called to the station before they’d recovered all of me. A thunderstorm raged outside. Officers and K-9 units scoured the city. Detective Miller, soaked to the bone, walked in carrying a bloodstained plastic bag.

“This one’s dry, David. See if you can get any prints.”

Dad nodded, opened the bag, and stared at the contents: chunks of reddish-brown flesh, neatly cubed like pieces of meat. His face went white, then red. He sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body trembling with barely suppressed rage.

"This…this monster! These…these were cut from her while she was still alive!"

Eight years. It was the first time I’d seen him show any emotion for me.

Detective Miller stood silently, sensing the shift in the room.

More body bags arrived. Dad pieced me together, bit by bloody bit. He worked for 24 hours straight, hunched over, eyes bloodshot. A flayed, crimson figure began to take shape.

Detective Miller ran to the bathroom and threw up. Wiping his mouth, he asked, "No skin? Trying to avoid leaving DNA?"

"No," Dad gasped, his voice raw. "Torture. She was skinned alive. He wanted to make her suffer."

“And…judging by the coagulation…he poured salt on the wounds, then…carved her up, piece by piece… He watched her agony for hours. Let her bleed out. He enjoyed it.”

Dad was the best. He knew exactly how I died.

“Jesus Christ…” Miller whispered, horrified.

“Her face…he used acid. Unidentifiable. Dental records suggest she’s between sixteen and twenty.”

“The bag with the bones…her right tibia is missing. He probably kept it. It might have had a distinguishing mark, an old fracture, a surgical scar…something to identify her.”

“He’s careful. No prints. No DNA. I can reconstruct her face from the skull, but it’ll take time.”

Miller put a hand on Dad's shoulder, then frowned, staring at my legless torso. "David…this is just like the Rain Killer, eight years ago."

Dad's hand twitched as he pulled off his gloves. Eight years ago, the Rain Killer, cornered by Dad’s evidence, had sabotaged Jason’s plane, killing my brother and himself in the crash. It was a forbidden topic.

“If this is connected…David, you need to tell your wife to keep your family safe. If he’s still using the same MO, Ashley’s the most likely target.”

Dad flinched at my name. “She deserves whatever she gets.”

The room went silent. His words cut deeper than any knife. Eight years of neglect, accusations, and insults hadn’t diminished his hatred. He wanted me dead.

“David!” Miller’s voice was sharp. “What if she hears you say that?”

“I don’t care! If she hadn’t begged Jason to come home for her stupid birthday, he wouldn't have been on that plane! He would have been safe!” Dad’s voice was thick with rage and grief. “My son…he was only eighteen! Vaporized! We searched those mountains for eight years! Eight years! We never even found a single piece of him…”

I’d heard it all before, countless times. A constant reminder that I was responsible for Jason’s death. I was haunted by nightmares of Dad at Jason’s funeral, his hands around my throat, screaming, “Why couldn’t it have been you?!”

I’d wondered the same thing. Then I’d still be their precious little girl, not the monster they all despised.

Miller sighed. “Jason’s gone, David. Do you really want to lose Ashley, too?”

I looked at Dad, hoping for a different answer.

“It wouldn't be such a bad thing,” he muttered.

The last flicker of hope in my ghostly heart died. Would he be happy now? Now that I was really gone?

An officer brought in a bloodstained keychain. A small, white lamb, no bigger than my thumb.

Dad glanced at it dismissively. “Just a trinket. Send it to the lab. See if the blood matches.”

I stared at him, heartbroken. He didn’t recognize it. He’d given it to me. After the attack. Two men on a motorcycle had tried to kidnap Mom and me. Mom had been dragged down the street, clinging to one of them. Dad had been stabbed trying to save us. The department had assigned us protection. When Dad recovered, he’d given me the lamb. It contained a small stun gun. He’d shown me how to use it, over and over, stroking my hair. “So you can protect yourself, even when Daddy’s not around.”

Now…he didn’t even remember.

…

Back at home, Dad checked his phone and saw my text. Meticulous as always, he called Mom. I thought they’d finally realize something was wrong.

“She’s pulling that ‘I’m being followed’ crap again, Carol! Tell her to spend a few extra days at Jason’s grave! Maybe that will knock some sense into her!”

No, Dad! It’s real this time! I’m not lying! Please, just believe me!

He just frowned, irritated.

I hoped Mom would sense something was wrong. After that first incident, years ago, I’d never dared to text them about being followed again.

Mom soothed Dad, then her voice turned cold. “I got the same text. Little drama queen. I told her to stay at the cemetery for a couple of days. I don’t want to see her.”

They continued their rant, listing my flaws, my failures. Dad reminded Mom to lock the doors and windows. Neither of them considered for a second that I might be in real danger.

I huddled in a corner of the room, my heart aching. They didn’t care.

…

“I need to report a missing person!” A familiar voice. “My friend, Ashley! She’s been gone for two days!”

My best friend, Chloe – also my classmate – was talking to an officer in the station lobby. She said she couldn’t reach me, that I’d missed our plans. Her eyes were red-rimmed. My heart twisted. I wanted to reach out, comfort her, but my hand passed right through her. I smiled through my tears. Thank you, Chloe. Thank you for trying.

As the officer asked for my parents’ contact information, Dad walked in, glanced at Chloe, and said, "Don't bother. I’m her father. She’s not missing. She’s grounded.” He spat out the word “grounded” like it was poison.

Chloe’s face crumpled. She looked down, ashamed.

Chloe wasn’t a bad influence! She’d always been there for me. She’d covered me with her jacket when I was crying, shared her lunch when I was hungry, chased bullies with a poop-covered mop, held my hand when I was ostracized, and told me we were a team, two cool girls against the world. She was my best friend.

No one questioned Dad. A respected officer. My disappearance was dismissed.

I watched Chloe leave, tears rolling down her cheeks. I wanted to follow, to comfort her, but I was tethered to Dad. I watched him examine my skull, followed him home.

Dinner was on the table: salmon, spicy crab, shrimp scampi. Mom remembered Jason’s favorite foods, but never that I was allergic to shellfish.

Once, Dad had asked why I wasn't eating. For a moment, I thought he cared. I’d taken a deep breath and said, “Dad, I’m allergic to shellfish…”

Mom had slammed her chopsticks down. “How dare you be so ungrateful?! I slave over a hot stove for you, and you complain?!”

I’d looked at Dad, my childhood hero, the one who always defended me against Mom’s wrath. He’d just put a large piece of crab on my plate. “Just eat, Ashley. Don’t upset your mother.”

Trapped by their gazes, I’d eaten it all.

Later that night, my throat had closed up. My eyes swelled shut. My skin itched and burned. "Help…me…" My voice was a strangled whisper. I stumbled towards the door, but it was locked. Panic seized me. I banged on the door, screaming. “Help! Mom! Dad! Please! I don’t want to die!”

I heard Mom’s voice from the living room. “It’s just an allergy! She’ll be fine! Good thing I locked the door. Little drama queen. Jason came to me in a dream last night. He wants the new Playstation. Come on, John, before the mall closes.”

No! Don’t leave me! I don’t want to die! Please!

The front door slammed shut. I was alone.

Maybe death would be a relief.

I curled up in a corner, waiting to die. I heard a father and daughter laughing downstairs.

“You silly girl! You know you’re allergic to peanuts! You almost died!”

“I’m sorry, Daddy! Don’t tell Mom!”

“She already knows. She threw her back out worrying about you, cooking all your favorite foods. She’s just glad you’re okay. A parent can’t stay mad at their child forever.”

I felt like a cockroach, a creature of the shadows, envying their happiness, their love. Ashamed. Invisible. I wanted that. I wanted them to care if I was allergic to something, to cook my favorite foods, to fuss over me. But I was the monster who killed their son. I didn’t deserve love.

Mom…Dad…I didn't want to die. I really didn't want to die…

I didn't die that night. I jumped out the window. Someone found me and called 911. The doctor said I was lucky to be alive.

The woman in the next bed peeled an orange for her daughter. "Your parents must be so relieved," she said.

I watched her, envious, as she fed her daughter bite by bite. My reflection in the window looked small and lonely.

“They are,” I said, a little too loudly, trying to convince myself, trying to convince the world. “They love me very much.”

The door burst open. Mom and Dad rushed in. A wave of relief washed over me. I struggled to sit up, tears streaming down my face.

“Mom…Dad…” I was so scared. So close to dying. I just wanted them to hold me. Just for a second.

Mom grabbed my shirt and threw me to the floor. The IV ripped out of my arm, spraying blood. “You little bitch! Faking an allergic reaction! Faking a suicide attempt! Trying to make us look bad?! Why don’t you just die for real?!”

I curled up, protecting my head as she kicked me. I wasn’t trying to make them look bad. I just…didn’t want to die.

I’d survived the fall, but I hadn’t survived their hatred. I saw Dad’s reflection in the window, standing against the wall, watching impassively as Mom dug her nails into my skin. I saw the woman in the next bed comforting her frightened daughter. I saw the nurses and doctors staring, their expressions a mix of pity and disdain. I was the villain in this story.

The fragile illusion I’d built, that they loved me…shattered. I’d been lying. They didn't love me. They never had.

…

After that, they cut me off financially. I lived at school, eating dollar-menu meals, sleeping on a cot in a sixteen-bed dorm. My scholarship money barely covered the fees. As I got older, the costs increased. I studied day and night, desperate to maintain my grades, to keep the scholarship, to survive. I thought if I was good enough, smart enough, they'd love me again.

I came home with a near-perfect report card, eager for their praise. A visiting relative gushed about how smart I was. Mom scoffed. “She’s not that bright. Not half as smart as Jason. She must have cheated.” She slapped me hard across the face. “Who did you copy from?”

My cheek stung, but the pain in my heart was worse.

My teacher called to verify my grades. Mom just shrugged, glancing at the shredded remains of my report card in the trash. “Big deal. Jason got straight A’s. She’s nothing special.”

My heart broke along with the report card.

They wanted a Jason. Fine. I’d become Jason.

I buried myself in my studies. Heat rash in the summer, frostbite in the winter, mosquito bites year-round… I endured it all. Finally, graduation. I could prove I was just as good as Jason. Maybe then…they’d love me.

I died the day before my final exam results were released. I never got to be their perfect child.

I watched them fill Jason's empty bowl, heaping food onto it, talking to him. They'd been doing this for eight years. I’d broken them. Maybe I did deserve to die.

A knock at the door. A familiar voice.

“Mom? Dad? Open up! I’m home! And I brought my wife!”

Dad’s hand trembled, and he dropped a bowl. It shattered. Mom froze, tears streaming down her face. “Is that…is that…?”

Dad stumbled to the door, his hand shaking as he fumbled with the lock.

He opened the door. A tall figure stood there, silhouetted against the porch light. It was Jason. My brother, who I’d supposedly killed eight years ago.