Born As Kidney Donor For My Sister

After he finished his schadenfreude, he stood up, adjusted his clothes, and took out a small knife from his pocket. I stared at the knife in terror, using every ounce of my strength to pray for him. He crouched in front of me, tapping my face with the blade, sending a chilling cold through my entire body.

He began rifling through my bag, finding my medical report with clear details of a seven–week–old baby inside me. He put the paper back into the bag, sheathed the knife, and covered my body with the torn clothing. I was relieved that this nightmare was nearing its end, grateful to be alive.

As he prepared to leave, my phone lit up with a message from Lydia: “Alison, you’re disgusting. You can’t even spare your own brother.”

He opened the message, tugged at my hair to make me look, and whispered that he had originally planned to let me go.

By now, the rain had stopped, and I could smell the fresh, damp grass, feel the gentle moonlight, and the evening breeze.

What followed was an array of detailed pain.

He used the knife to sever my fingers, and through my swollen, tear–filled eyes, I saw the stark white bones inside. Just as I thought I was on the brink of death, I felt him slicing my skin with the knife, tearing off my disfigured face, leaving me with a sliver of consciousness, encased in frost.

The biting cold of the freezer instantly froze my exposed cheeks, agonizingly so.

“See, your sister is calling you disgusting.” He whispered in my ear before leaving.

How did he know Lydia was my sister?

Because I had her saved as “Sister” in my contacts.

My deteriorating relationship with my stepfather began when I was ten.

The nightmare from when I was eight was a one–time event. After that, seeing a kinder stepfather, I started doubting the reality of that night. I fell into self–doubt, questioning how such a good person could do something so terrible to me.”

Oh, it must be my fault. I stopped avoiding him and began interacting with him as before, though with a lingering guilt, obediently following his commands.

Until the day after I turned ten, my stepfather told my mother he would take me to the amusement park to make up for not taking me out the day before. He also told Nash and Lydia not to be jealous, saying it was a special birthday gift just for me.

Excited, I held my stepfather’s hand and left the house. I waved at them from the car, promising to bring back gifts.

After drinking the water my stepfather had prepared, I grew increasingly drowsy, and the car drove farther and farther. When I woke up again, I found myself in an unfamiliar room with my hands bound, enveloped once more in darkness.

From the ages of ten to fourteen, while others enjoyed the best years of their lives, I was repeatedly trapped in a pit of despair.

I was afraid to wear skirts or bright clothes, to get too close to my classmates. I even felt they were laughing at me, mocking someone

so broken that I didn’t deserve such delicate colors; I feared they would sense the rotting stench emanating from my very bones.

I deliberately kept my distance from Nash and the others. They shared my stepfather’s blood, and I feared them deeply.

At home, peaceful moments were rare. My deliberate distancing worsened my relationship with Nash and Lydia. Though they didn’t understand the reason, they respected my wishes, leaving me isolated.

When did this fragile peace shatter?

Perhaps it was when I was fifteen. My stepfather noticed Nash’s melancholy after a breakup and called me to a hotel. When I realized my stepfather’s intentions, I fought desperately, but he beat me until my brother saw me, bound and bruised.

Or it was when Lydia was fourteen, discovering me, tear–streaked and disheveled, leaving Nash’s room, and later seeing my stepfather sneaking into my room.

I became the villain in their eyes.

But what had I done wrong?

On the day Lydia first cornered me in the bathroom, I locked myself in the bedroom, using a small knife to repeatedly cut my skin. As the dark red liquid dripped to the floor, I felt as though I was back in that afternoon when I was eight.

A dim room, light filtering through the curtains.NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

Heavy smoke and suffocating cries.