When I was seven years old, my younger brother went into anaphylactic shock after sneaking a handful of peanuts.

Outside the emergency room, my mother slammed my head against the wall over and over, her face twisted with rage.

"If you had been watching him like you were supposed to be, this never would have happened! You should be the one with a ruptured stomach, not him!"

After that, whenever my brother so much as caught a cold, my mother forced me to eat spoiled leftovers as punishment.

I once prepared an elaborate feast. She flipped the entire table and made me crawl on the floor to lick it clean.

When I said I wanted to study culinary arts, she poured hot oil over my hands.

My father wanted to send me to vocational school to learn a trade, but my mother clutched my brother to her chest and wailed.

"She destroyed her brother's health! She owes him a lifetime of service!"

When I was fifteen, my brother's gluttony cost my father an important business deal. I took the blame without even being asked, and the furious client forced me to drink more than half a gallon of hard liquor.

By the time I was sent home with a bleeding stomach, my father had already scolded my brother. My mother took out her anger on me instead, slapping me so hard my ears rang and my vision went dark at the edges.

"You useless thing! You should’ve choked to death at that table! I get sick just looking at you!"

I coughed up black blood. From my pocket, I pulled out a piece of sour candy that had gone soft and sticky.

It was the only treat my mother had ever given me with a smile, back before my brother's allergic reaction.

I put the candy in my mouth and swallowed it down with the taste of stomach acid. The candy was so sour it made my throat burn.

Whatever came next, I just hoped I would not have to be my family’s garbage disposal again.

I lay curled up on the cold floor.

I had taken the fall for my little brother and downed more than half a gallon of hard liquor as punishment. Now, every organ in my body felt like it was burning from the inside out.

I wanted to drag myself to a hospital, but I could not even lift a finger. Just as my vision started going dark, the door burst open with a violent kick.

My mother, Fernanda Sanchez, stood in the doorway, her face twisted in disgust.

Her eyes landed on the pool of black blood I had vomited onto the floor. "Layla Lloyd! Did you do this on purpose?

"I just mopped, and you've already made the floor filthy again! What, you couldn't make it to the bathroom?

"All day long, you play dead. You're nothing but a burden!"

I used every ounce of strength I had left to reach toward her, a desperate wheeze rattling from my throat.

"Mom... Please... Help me..."

The sound came out so faint I could barely hear myself. Somewhere deep down, I still had hope.

After all, I was her daughter. Her own flesh and blood.

The next moment, her foot slammed into the back of my outstretched hand. The pain nearly knocked me unconscious. Tears streamed down my face.

"Stop faking! Do you think you can just lie there and get out of doing your chores? Not a chance!

"Let me make this clear. As long as I'm breathing, you'll spend every single day making up for what you did to your brother!"

I wanted to shake my head and tell her I truly could not move, but my throat would not form the words.

Then, a small figure rushed into the room. My brother, Liam Lloyd, clutched a Transformer in his hands. When he saw the blood on the floor, he froze.

"Layla..."

His first instinct was to come help me up. For just a second, my heart lifted. At least the brother I had protected with my life still cared about me.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mom yanked him back hard. "Get away from her! She's poison, and I won't have her dragging you down too!"

Liam flinched at her shouting, his shoulders hunching. When Mom turned to grab a rag, he quickly poured me a cup of hot water and brought it carefully to my lips.

I had just started to open my mouth when Mom whirled back around and slapped the cup from his hands. It flew across the room, and scalding water splashed across my face.

"Who said you could give her water? She doesn't deserve it!"

Mom pointed at Liam and screamed, "She's a menace! Back then, she nearly got you killed because she wasn't watching you! People like her deserve to die of thirst!"

She dragged him out of the room, still muttering curses under her breath, "Lock that door! She doesn't eat until her work is done!"

The door slammed shut again. The physical agony combined with the emotional torture finally shattered what was left of me.

I used the very last shred of strength in my body to inch forward across the floor. My nails scraped along the cracks between the boards until they bled.

Finally, I reached Dad's nightstand. Inside sat a bottle of his antibiotics and half a bottle of high-proof liquor he had not finished.

I grabbed the pill bottle and dumped everything into my mouth. The pills scraped down my throat until my eyes rolled back in my head.

I snatched up the liquor and tilted my head back, forcing it down. The burning in my stomach exploded instantly. The pain made me curl into a tight ball on the floor.

Through the haze, I heard Dad's voice on the phone outside. "How is Layla doing?"

Mom picked up. "Your daughter is perfectly fine! She's in her room throwing a fit!"

Mom, I was not throwing a fit.

I was dying.

The next day, my body felt weightless. The stomach pain that had been driving me insane was gone.

I looked down and saw a body lying on the floor with a purple and blue face, as well as white foam and dark red blood crusted at the corners of the mouth.

That was me. That was Layla Lloyd, as dead as a doornail.

I floated in midair, staring at my own stiff corpse. It looked almost like a stranger. Now, the girl who had always kept her head down would never have to bow to anybody again.

Sunlight streamed through the window and fell directly across my body. Too bad I could not feel its warmth anymore.

The sound of the television blared from the living room. Mom was watching her favorite variety show, exaggerated laughter echoing from the speakers.

I drifted through the door and into the living room. Mom sat cross-legged on the couch with a handful of pistachios, cracking them and spitting shells all over the floor. She laughed so hard she rocked back and forth, completely unaware that her daughter had become a corpse.

"Mom, why isn't Layla up yet?" Liam looked up and asked.

The smile vanished from Mom's face instantly. She rolled her eyes. "Who cares about that brat? I’d prefer if she starved to death so she stops being an eyesore. She made such a mess yesterday. I bet she's too ashamed to show her face."

I floated in front of her and spoke slowly, "Mom, I'm already dead."

However, she could no longer hear me.

Just then, someone knocked on the door. Outside stood May Goodwin, who ran the small diner downstairs.

"Fernanda, is Layla home?" May smiled warmly.

"Layla didn't come to help at the shop yesterday. I was worried about her. I just made a fresh pot of chicken soup and wanted to bring her some."

I drifted to the doorway and breathed in the aroma as deeply as I could. May’s cooking was one of the few things in this world that had ever given me warmth.

"Oh, May, you're too kind." Mom took the container.

"That brat threw a tantrum at me yesterday and locked herself in her room. The kid just doesn't know any better. We’re sorry to worry you."

May hesitated, looking disappointed. "All right, then. I'll head back."

After May left, Mom walked straight to the trash can and dumped the entire container inside.

"What kind of trash is this anyway? As if that brat deserves to eat something like this! Garbage people can only eat garbage."

My heart had already stopped beating, but I still felt a wave of cold wash over me. In my mother’s eyes, I was not even worth a bowl of soup.

I floated above the trash can, overwhelmed by sadness. That soup was May's kindness. It was the warm meal I had craved most when I was alive. Now, it sat mixed with rotten vegetable scraps.

Suddenly, a small hand reached into the trash can. It was Liam. While Mom had gone back to watch TV in the living room, he snuck into the kitchen.

He scooped up some of the soup with his hand, not bothering to check if it was dirty, and tasted it. Then, he grabbed a piece of chicken and tiptoed to my bedroom door.

He spoke softly through the closed door, "Layla, don't be mad at Mom anymore. May's chicken soup is really good, and I saved you the best piece! Open the door and eat some before it gets cold, okay?"

I looked at his innocent face and at the greasy piece of chicken in his hand. I wanted to cry, but ghosts had no tears.

"Silly boy! Your sister can't eat anymore. She will never taste chicken soup again."

I reached out, wanting to touch his head, but my hand passed straight through his hair.

Two days after I died, a strange smell began to seep from my room.

Mom paused mid-step as she walked past my door and covered her nose. "That brat must be hoarding leftovers in there again and turning her room into a pigsty! It reeks!"

I floated nearby and watched her grab a box of mothballs from the cabinet. Then, she got down on her hands and knees and shoved them one by one through the crack of my door, trying to cover up the smell of death.

The white mothballs rolled into the room and stopped beside my corpse.

"Mom, that's not the smell of garbage. That's the smell of your daughter rotting."

Did she not suspect anything at all? If she just opened the door and looked, just once, she would finally see. However, she did not.

Mom dusted off her hands, looking pleased with herself.

Just then, the delivery guy downstairs shouted up, "Layla! You've got mail!"

Mom went down to get it and came back with a thick envelope stamped with the City Culinary Association’s logo.

Getting in had been my dream. I had saved up my breakfast money for half a year and entered a competition in secret without Mom knowing.

I had won first place. Inside the envelope was not just an award certificate, but also a recommendation letter for an internship at the city's only five-star hotel.

With that letter, I could have made a living with my own skills.

I floated behind Mom, staring at that envelope with everything I had left.

"Mom, open it and look! Your daughter is not worthless. I made something of myself!"

Mom looked at the words on the envelope, and her face darkened.

"Culinary Association? More of this nonsense! Instead of focusing on school, all she does is embarrass us!"

She did not even bother opening it properly. She grabbed both ends and ripped the envelope in half.

I screamed and lunged forward, trying to save those pieces, but I could not hold onto anything.

Mom carried the torn envelope to the bathroom and dumped every scrap into the toilet. As the water swirled, the papers that represented my achievement disappeared completely down the drain.

Mom spat into the toilet bowl. "You're spending the rest of your life taking care of your brother. If you think you can leave, keep dreaming!"

That evening, my father, Brian Lloyd, called from out of town. He drove trucks for a living and only came home once a month.

"Hey, honey, has Layla come out yet?" His voice came through the phone, tinged with exhaustion.

Mom was putting on a face mask as she answered carelessly. "Oh, she's really outdone herself this time. She’s throwing a tantrum because I won't let her go learn some stupid cooking thing. She locked herself in her room on a hunger strike. It's already been two days."

Dad sighed on the other end. "If the kid wants to learn, just let her. At least it's a trade. Don't be too hard on her. Go check on her! Make sure she's not actually starving."

Mom exploded at that. "Brian! What are you trying to say? That I'm abusing her? She's my daughter too, and I have a right to teach her discipline! Missing a couple of meals won't kill her! If she gets hungry enough, she'll crawl out on her own!"

She hung up without another word and threw the phone onto the couch. "Everyone's determined to stress me out! I must have done something terrible to deserve being stuck with this family!"

I floated in the air and let my head drop in defeat.

"Dad, if you had just pressed her a little harder, or if you had driven home right then, maybe you could have seen me one last time while I still looked human."

However, there were no ifs in life.