Another memory surfaced through the haze. Last month, several girls from school cornered me in a bathroom stall. They shoved the door closed behind me. One of them poured a bottle of cold water over my head.

The shock stole my breath.

Another girl twisted open a tube of lipstick and began drawing thick, ugly lines across my face, adding crooked circles around my eyes.

One of them laughed. "Freak. Ugly bookworm."

Their voices cut like glass.

"Your sister's the one with depression, right? That means you're crazy too."

"Yeah. Your whole family's messed up. No wonder you walk around with that funeral face."

They laughed until boredom took over and left me dripping in the stall.

When I got home, my mother wrinkled her nose the moment I stepped through the door.

"What is that smell?" she said with a frown. "Go wash up. Stella is sensitive to odors."

That was it. There were no questions or concern.

I locked myself in my room and cried until my throat hurt.

Later, my mother knocked and asked what was wrong.

I wiped my face, opened the door a crack, and forced a small smile. "Nothing."

I already knew what would happen if I told them.

If my family learned I was being bullied, the house would become "disharmonious." My sister would spiral. She would scream, cry, and break things. Then the doctor's words would return like a curse hanging over all of us.

Stella couldn't receive any stimulation. Otherwise, her life may be in danger. Those words ruled the house like law.

The darkness tightened around my vision. Somewhere nearby, I heard my father speaking on the phone. "Yes. Stella is having another episode. Right. We're bringing her to the hospital now."

Footsteps rushed past me. No one stopped to ask why I had gone so quiet.

"Rainie! Go get Stella's medication!" my mother called without turning around.

I tried to answer, but my lips would not move.

"Look at her pretending again," my father snapped. "Let's see how long she keeps that act up."

My last clear thought drifted somewhere else entirely.

The day I stood at the door of the art studio, I had packed all my paints and brushes. I placed every tube of color and every pencil inside a locker and sealed it.

My art teacher stared at me in disbelief.

"Why would you quit?" she asked. "You're the most talented student I have."

I kept my head down so she would not see my face.

"The smell of paint gives my sister headaches," I said quietly. "The doctor said she needs a quiet environment."

The dreams I locked inside that cabinet were now dying with me.

In the distance, a siren wailed. It was an ambulance. The sound grew louder as it approached.

"Stella! Hang on!" my mother cried. "The doctor will be here any second!"

Footsteps thundered through the hallway. The door flew open. Fresh air rushed into the apartment and carried away some of the thick smell of blood.

"Where is the patient?" a strange male voice asked.

"Here! Over here!" my father shouted urgently. "My daughter can't take it anymore!"

I wanted someone to look down just once and notice that another daughter lay on the floor, bleeding and waiting.

The paramedics hurried straight to the sofa. They lifted my sister carefully as she thrashed and screamed.

No one looked toward the corner. No one noticed the girl dying on the floor.

"Patients with intracranial bleeding cannot wait..."

Those were the last words I heard before the world collapsed into permanent darkness.

I floated above the living room and looked down at my own body.

Death felt strangely painless, light.

My body still lay where it had fallen. Blood behind my head had dried into a dark patch. My face had turned pale.

The apartment buzzed with chaos. My father stood beside the paramedics and shielded my screaming sister as they rushed for the door. My mother clutched a bottle of medication and hurried after them.

No one looked back. No one glanced at the daughter they had forgotten in the corner of the living room.

"Hurry! The ambulance is waiting!" my father shouted.

My mother slowed and turned her head slightly. "Where's Rainie?"

"Forget about her!" my father barked. "Stella matters more!"

He charged down the stairs with my sister in his arms.

My mother hesitated for only a moment. Then she followed.

The door slammed shut behind them. The impact knocked the family photo off the wall. It struck the floor with a crack, and glass shattered across the empty apartment.

In the photograph, my sister stood in the center. My parents held her on both sides. All three of them were smiling.

In the family photo, I stood at the very edge, as if I had wandered into the frame by mistake. I looked like an outsider who did not belong.

I drifted toward the window and watched the ambulance pull away, its blue and red lights flashing across the early morning streets.

They still had not realized that I was dead.

Back in my bedroom, my phone began to ring. I floated through the wall and saw the screen light up on my desk.

The caller ID showed Homeroom Teacher Leslie Lynch. The phone rang until it switched to voicemail.

"Hello, this is Miss Lynch, Rainie's homeroom teacher. Rainie didn't come to school today and didn't request leave. Is she sick? Please contact the school as soon as possible."

Sunlight slipped through the curtains and spread across my desk. My textbooks for today's classes sat there in neat stacks.

After school, I had planned to buy the new art album released this week. Now I would never need it.

My soul drifted without control and followed the direction my family had gone.

At the hospital's emergency department, my sister lay on a bed with an IV in her arm. A sedative had finally quieted her.

The doctor finished examining her and frowned slightly.

"Just shock," he said as he removed his stethoscope. "Nothing serious. She only needs rest."

"Thank God," my mother said. She collapsed into a chair as tears streamed down her face.

My father wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "It's okay. Stella will be fine."

I stood directly in front of them.

I tried to shout, "Look at me! I'm dead! Your eldest daughter is dead!"

My voice could not reach the living.

A nurse entered with a clipboard. "Would you like to complete the hospital admission paperwork?"

"Of course," my father said at once as he stood. "My daughter needs the best care."

The nurse lowered her head and wrote something down.

"The patient's name is Stella Somerset, correct?"

"Yes, she—"

"What about the other patient?" the nurse asked suddenly. "The paramedics mentioned another injured young woman at the scene."

My parents exchanged puzzled looks.

"Oh, you mean Rainie?" my mother said, waving her hand dismissively. "She's fine. She just fell and bumped her head. She should be resting at home."

The nurse nodded and left.

I closed my eyes. They still had not realized that I had already stopped breathing.

On the hospital bed, my sister shifted and let out a faint groan.

My mother rushed to her side at once. "Baby, what hurts? Tell Mommy."

"Rainie..." my sister whispered weakly. "Rainie wants to hurt me."

"Don't be afraid," my mother said quickly. "Mom won't let her hurt you."

She stroked my sister's hair with astonishing tenderness. "Your sister only knocked over a cup by accident. She didn't mean it."

"No!" My sister suddenly grew agitated. "She did it on purpose! She hates me!"

Her voice rose. "She always says I'm the burden of the family. That I'm a disaster. One day I'll kill everyone!"

Her breathing quickened. The numbers on the monitor jumped wildly.

Doctors and nurses rushed in again, and another wave of chaos filled the room.

I drifted to the corner and watched in silence.

Since we were little, whenever my sister said, "My sister hates me," my parents looked at me with disappointment, as if I had committed some unforgivable crime.

"Stella says you hid her toys."

"Stella says you woke her up on purpose last night."

"Stella says you put something in her water."

Even now, when I was already dead, they still believed every word she said.

My father's phone suddenly rang. He stepped into the hallway to answer it.

"Hello? Oh, Officer Stone. What?!"

The color drained from his face.

"No. That is impossible." His voice trembled. "Are you sure it's our Rainie?"

From the phone came the cold, steady voice of a police officer. "Preliminary assessment indicates the deceased is a 16-year-old female. Fatal trauma to the back of the head. Estimated time of death is at least three hours ago."

There was a pause.

"We have confirmed the identity. The deceased is your eldest daughter, Rainie Somerset."