into my bones. It felt like I'd been drenched in icy water. They saw me as a monster, a murderer, a h

n days. I walked to the kitchen, my movements slow and heavy. The kitchen, usu

handful of cashews in an open bag. I grabbed them, tearing off a piece of

sgust. "Oh, Elia," she said, feigning surprise, "did you eat that old bread? It was meant for the garbage. The good breakfa

y a whisper. The sharp twist in my stomach intensified. I turned and went back up to the attic. There was

the small bottle of painkillers I kept hidden. I swallowed two, dry, waitin

unruly hair. I applied a thin layer of makeup, hoping to hide the shadows u

ay left. I could

twenty-four hours left. So I picked the prettiest one from the display, a simple cera

people threw my way. A young woman, holding an urn, on a weekday afternoon. They

hone was still silent. No messages. No missed calls. He hadn't bothered to check his social

only place I knew, even if it was a cold attic. I turned an

the kitchen and started cooking. My last meal. My last desperate attempt. I cooked everything I

A desperate, silent plea for them to come home.

relentless. It had shrunk

ere hot oil had splattered. The pain was still there, a vivid pulse against my skin, but it was overshadowed by a stran

ho

drick's number. My eldest brother. The one who had pulled me out of the too

ne rang once, tw

shed tears. "Please, just come home. Celebrate

ed for myself. My knuckles were white as I gripped the phone, the burn on my hand throbbing in sync wit

rength. Steam rose from the dishes, evaporating into the vast, empty dining room. A dying

ht I was manipulative, seeking attention. But maybe, just maybe, the w

. Please. Just so I can leave this world with a memory not tainted by hatred. Just so I

d, each second a hammer blow, chipping

n years of neglect. "Please. Don't let me die alone." My heart