Dad is famous for being a total simp over Mom in the elite society. Naturally, he views Callie Archer, the stepdaughter whom Mom has brought with her, as his own.

But Callie is afflicted with a severe case of walking phobia. Her feet couldn't touch the ground at all. Only when she's stepping on my back can she roam around in the house freely.

So, whenever Callie looks in a certain direction, Mom will press my head down and force me to crawl toward Callie to serve as her doormat.

The doctor issues a warning to my family that my spine is severely contorted. So when Callie wants to admire the flowers in the yard while wearing a pair of spiked shoes again, I can't endure the pain anymore, so I shiver slightly out of instinct.

Callie ends up losing her balance and falling to the ground. She bawls like a baby afterward.

Mom rushes over immediately before kicking me in the gut, her high heel lodging into my flesh.

"It's extremely rare for Callie to be willing to leave the house! Why must you ruin her mood? Can't you just be more understanding and play your role as a doormat for the sake of your sister's illness?"

Meanwhile, Dad scoops Callie into his arms, his heart bleeding for her plight. He coaxes her gently, telling her that he'll buy her new dresses later.

I can only curl up on the ground while hacking up blood. But Dad just thinks I'm playing the pity card.

He commands his men to throw me into the basement. Apparently, I can only be released once I've learned to stay stationary when I'm supporting Callie.

As I clutch my broken ribs, I feel my tears flowing down my face as well as the blood from my injuries.

I'm sorry, Dad.

Next time, I will definitely not move a muscle, just like a corpse.

"Are you still alive?"

The basement door was pushed open a crack, and Dad stood in the backlight, covering his nose and mouth in disgust.

"It smells like a rat has died here. Arlene, it's been three days—have you learned how to be a proper doormat yet?"

Dad looked down at me, his eyes devoid of any warmth a father might have for his daughter. Instead, they held only the impatience one might feel toward a defective product.

Three days ago, Callie Archer was wearing those specially made dance shoes, their soles studded with sharp steel spikes.

She said it was desensitization therapy for her "walking phobia". She could only bring herself to take a step when she felt something soft yet slightly firm beneath her feet.

That something was my back.

When the first steel spike pierced my skin and dug into the space between my vertebrae, I couldn't help but tremble.

Callie screamed and fell onto the lawn, scraping her knee.

Mom lunged at me like a madwoman, her high heel breaking my ribs.

"You just can't stand to see Callie do well! She finally took her first step, and you ruined it all!"

I lay face down in the mud, vomiting blood from the pain.

But Dad, cradling Callie with a pained expression, turned and instructed the bodyguards, "Throw Arlene into the basement. She comes out only when she learns to lie as still as a corpse."

I thought Dad had come to save me. With great effort, I stretched out my bruised hand, trying to grasp the hem of his pants.

"Dad, it hurts. Save me," I said weakly.

Dad took half a step back, his expensive leather shoes avoiding my hand as if it were something filthy.

"It hurts? Do you think it didn't hurt for Callie when she fell? Your mother hasn't eaten for two days out of heartache for Callie. Don't you feel anything for them?"

He crouched down, his gaze icy as he looked at me. "Arlene, you're simply too selfish. As punishment for your selfishness, you get no dinner tonight. Reflect on yourself.

"Callie has a competition tomorrow, so you need to carry her onto the stage. If you dare move again, I'll break your legs."

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, plunging the basement back into darkness.

Despair washed over me as I stared at the sliver of light beneath the door.

My body grew colder, and my consciousness began to blur. I remembered a time before I turned six years old, when Dad used to hold me too. He said I was his little princess.

But everything changed after Mom brought Callie into our home. Mom said Callie had a pitiful past, so we had to make it up to her twofold.

Dad said, "Love for one extends to others close to them." Moreover, he wanted to prove he was the best stepfather in the world.

And so, my bedroom became Callie's walk-in closet, and my spine became Callie's personal carpet. I became the most unwanted piece of trash in this family.

My heart gave a violent, final spasm. The last of my breath caught in my throat.

Sorry, Dad. This time, I'd truly learned my lesson. I wouldn't move ever again.

I was floating. My body felt light, and the bone-deep pain was gone. I looked down at that small, frail corpse curled up in the tattered cotton batting. Its eyes were wide open, as if refusing to close even in death, and a dark red trail of blood still lingered at the corner of its mouth.

So ugly. No wonder Mom and Dad didn't like it.

I drifted through the heavy basement door and into the living room. It was brightly lit, the heater blasting warm air. A comedy show played on TV.

Callie, still wearing those spike-studded dance shoes, sat cross-legged on the couch eating cherries. Mom was feeding them for her, while Dad was massaging her legs.

"Callie, does your leg still hurt?" Dad asked in a sickeningly sweet voice.

Callie let out a coquettish scoff. "It hurts. That wretched Arlene has such hard bones—they made my feet ache. Dad, can you break her bones tomorrow? That way they'd be softer to step on."

Hovering in midair, I felt no chill, yet my heart grew utterly cold. It turned out to them, I wasn't a human being but merely an item to be worked on.

Dad dotingly tapped the tip of Callie's nose. "Alright, whatever you say. If Arlene still won't behave, I'll buy a real lambskin mat and stitch her skin onto it."

Mom shot Dad a look of mock disapproval. "Don't scare Callie like that. But Arlene really does need to be disciplined properly. After locking her in the basement these past few days, I wonder if she's learned her lesson."

Callie spat out a cherry pit. "Mom, do you think she might be dead already? When Dad went down earlier, I could even smell something foul."

Mom paused briefly, then smiled nonchalantly. "If she's dead, so be it. It just so happened we bought an accidental death insurance policy for her. The payout should be enough to get you that piano you wanted."

Dad chuckled along. "Don't be afraid, Callie. As long as I'm here, even if she turns into a ghost, she won't be able to hurt you."

The family of three was enjoying a harmonious and joyful time together. Their laughter echoed through the villa, sounding painfully shrill to my ears.

I stared at Dad's familiar face. This was my own birth father. Yet, to please his stepdaughter and his second wife, he had not only abused his own daughter but now, in discussing my death, thought only of the insurance money.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to laugh. What unspeakable sin had I committed in a past life to be born into a family like this?

Just then, Callie suddenly jumped down from the couch and spun in a circle on the wool carpet, barefoot. Her movements were light, her dance graceful. There wasn't any trace of her "walking phobia" at all.

"Mom, what do you think of my dance? I'm going to win the gold medal at the competition tomorrow!"

Mom applauded and said, "You're a genius. As long as you're away from that jinx Arlene, you can do anything."

Dad looked at Callie admiringly. "As expected of my daughter. Although we're not related by blood, you've picked up my poise all the same."

I hovered near the ceiling, watching the scene with cold detachment. So, it turned out Callie's illness was all an act, and everyone knew she was pretending. Only I was foolish enough to have believed it.

To "cure" Callie, I endured five years of torment that left my spine deformed, my internal organs ruptured, and ultimately cost me my life.

This wasn't just abuse. It was premeditated murder.

The next morning, the villa was a flurry of activity.

Callie was to participate in the city's children's talent competition. Stylists and makeup artists buzzed around her.

She was wearing a fluffy tulle princess dress, yet she was throwing a tantrum.

"Where's my doormat? Without Arlene to carry me to the car, I'm too scared to walk!"

She sat in her wheelchair, slamming a hairbrush down with a loud crash.

Frantic, Mom yelled at the housekeeper, Harriet Browning, "Drag Arlene out of the basement. Make sure to wash her properly so that she doesn't dirty Callie's dress."

Harriet scurried off obediently, and I drifted after her into the basement.

She covered her nose and nudged the stiff body on the floor. "Ms. Arlene, stop sleeping. Ms. Callie is waiting."

The body didn't move an inch.

Harriet impatiently gave a hard tug. With a dull thud, the corpse rolled over. The face was bruised and blackened, the pupils clouded and fixed, staring straight up at the ceiling.

Harriet let out a terrified scream and fell on her backside.

"Ms. Arlene is dead!"

The scream pierced through the villa. Before long, Dad, Mom, and Callie rushed down. At the sight of my corpse, Mom's first reaction wasn't grief. Instead, she took a step back in disgust.

"How unlucky! She just had to choose the day of Callie's competition to die. I bet she must've done it on purpose."

Callie covered her nose, tears springing to her eyes instantly. "Mom, I'm scared. Has Arlene turned into a vengeful ghost to come for me?"

Dad held Callie tenderly, pressing her head against his chest. "Don't look. It's filthy."

He turned his gaze toward my corpse, his eyes terrifyingly indifferent. "Maybe it's better this way. Saves trouble for the family later. Harriet, put her in a sack and bury her in the back hills. Make sure no one sees. We can't let this ruin Callie's mood for the competition."

Harriet's hands shook, but she dared not move.

Dad impatiently kicked the body. "Stop playing dead! Get up!"

The corpse rolled over from the kick, a stiff arm twisted at an eerie, unnatural angle.

This time, Dad finally froze. He stared at those small hands that had once reached out to him countless times, begging to be held. They were covered in needle marks and scars from cigarette burns, wounds inflicted by Callie during her "episodes", right under his watch.

He used to say, "Callie is sick, so you have to be understanding."

Now, those hands were utterly still.

Dad's face paled slightly. "She's really dead?"

Mom urged impatiently, "Willard, what are you standing around for? We're about to be late for the competition. For an ingrate like her, death is probably a release."

Dad snapped out of it and took a deep breath. "Right, the competition is what matters. Lock the door for now. We'll deal with this when we get back. The media must not find out. Otherwise, the company's stock price would be affected."

Without even sparing me another glance, he turned and pushed Callie's wheelchair away.

"Callie, don't be afraid. I'll carry you into the car. You're the most beautiful princess today."

The basement door was locked once more, and my corpse lay alone on the cold floor like a forgotten bag of trash.

I drifted in the air, watching them leave. Suddenly, a surge of hatred welled up, threatening to consume me.

So, death wasn't the end. To be regarded as worthless by one's family, to have one's death fail to stir even the slightest ripple in them—that was the greatest punishment.

But why? Why did the wicked get to don finery and receive applause? Why did the victim have to rot in the dark corner? There was no way I was going to accept fading away like this!

Even if I had to become a vengeful ghost, I would drag them all down to hell with me.