Chapter 2

Roxy was the older twin.

I was Hope, the younger one.

Since the day we were born, God had played a sick joke on us.

Any physical harm Roxy endured would register in my nervous system with ten times the intensity.

And she felt absolutely nothing. She had congenital insensitivity to pain.

Right now, I was curled up on the hardwood floor like a dying shrimp, my entire body convulsing violently.

The pain was so intense that my throat could only produce a dry, rattling gasp.

Through my blurry vision, I saw Roxy sitting on the sofa, casually spinning a shiny utility knife between her fingers.

She had that bored, mocking smile on her face. Then, she pressed the blade against her pale forearm and dragged it down.

*Screeech.*

The sound of flesh tearing open.

"Ahhh!"

The scream didn't come from her. It came from me.

In that instant, it felt like a power drill was boring straight into my bone marrow. My very soul was being shredded.

I foamed at the mouth, my limbs flailing uncontrollably as my fingernails clawed at the floor, leaving bloody streaks.

"Hope, that’s enough. Get up," my dad, Harold, said from his armchair. He looked annoyed as he tapped the ash off his cigarette.

A speck of glowing, hot ash fell right onto the back of my hand.

*Sizzle.*

Another red burn mark.

My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets from the shock. I stared at him, desperately trying to beg for help.

*Dad, please. Save me.*

But no words came out. Only tears and drool smeared across my face.

My mom, Linda, was peeling an apple for Roxy. She didn't even look at me.

"Roxy, honey, why do you have to hurt yourself over this?" Linda sighed.

Roxy pouted like a spoiled brat. "It’s Hope’s fault! She won't sign over her Ivy League admission spot to me! Mom, I don’t want to take the SATs. It’s too hard."

"Since she’s the younger sister, isn't it her job to help me out? She should carry my academic stress."

As she spoke, a flash of pure malice crossed Roxy's eyes.

She pressed the knife deeper.

This time, the cut went straight to the bone.

"Arghhh—!!!"

My heart seized. It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing it until it popped.

The pain went far beyond what a human body could tolerate.

My spine arched rigidly, and then I crashed heavily back onto the floor.

My vision went pitch black, and the voices in the room started sounding distant, like they were underwater.

Linda walked over and kicked my head with the toe of her slipper.

"Cut the drama, Hope. You’ve been pulling this stunt since we were kids. Aren't you tired of it?"

"Look at you, acting like a corpse. You don’t have a single drop of your sister's courage."

"Roxy is bleeding so much and she hasn't made a sound. You don’t even have a scratch on you, yet you're squealing like a pig."

Right.

Ever since we were kids, because I was always the one crying in pain, they saw me as a dramatic, attention-seeking loser.

Meanwhile, Roxy, who couldn't feel pain, got into gang fights and caused trouble, but they praised her for being "tough" and "a fighter."

They forgot that I was the one paying the price for her "toughness."

Harold blew out a cloud of smoke, his cold face hidden behind the gray haze.

"Stop playing dead. Sign the paper."

"Once you sign it, we’ll take your sister to get stitches, and your 'pain' will stop."

I tried to raise my hand to tell them that I couldn't breathe.

My heart was beating in a wild, chaotic rhythm, like a machine breaking down.

Then came the final, massive surge of neural shock.

*Snap.*

It felt like a wire snapped in my brain.

My eyes stared blankly at the ceiling fan, my pupils dilating.

My body remained twisted on the floor, completely still.

Seeing that I wasn't moving, Roxy walked over impatiently.

She smeared some of the blood from her arm onto my cheek and shoved the pen into my stiff hand.

"Hey, wake up. Sign it so I can go to the ER, and you can stop crying."

The pen slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the floor.

My arm fell limp, like a puppet with its strings cut.

I was completely gone.

My soul floated up to the ceiling, watching this absurd scene unfold.

I was dead.

I died in the heat of a summer evening at eighteen, while my own family watched with cold indifference.