Chapter 3

The savory scent of dinner drifted over.

Baked lobster, Tomahawk steak, salad, and clam chowder.

Everything Leo loved.

He was a picky eater, so my mother always cooked to his tastes.

I wasn't picky. I could eat anything. Or eat nothing at all.

The clanking of the spatula against the pan, the clinking of silverware, the sound of Leo’s voice, and Richard’s laughter.

My mother said, "Leo, eat more meat. Look how thin you are."

Richard said, "Don't just eat meat. Have some veggies too."

Leo said, "Dad, I want some soup."

My mother said, "I'll get it for you, sweetie."

I lay on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold tiles, staring at the apple peels near the table leg.

It had been a very long time since anyone had served me soup.

The blockage in my airway remained.

Inhaling felt like someone scraping the inside of my throat with sandpaper. Exhaling sounded like a slow leak.

I tried to take a deep breath. A sharp, whistling sound came from my throat, thin and high, like a dying bird.

No one heard.

Or perhaps they heard, but nobody cared.

I closed my eyes and buried my face in my arms.

The tiles were freezing, but my tears were hot. When they rolled onto the floor, they immediately turned cold.

I struggled to open my eyes and saw that my fingernails had turned a dark purple, as if they had been pinched.

When I used to have attacks, my mother would panic.

She would scramble through the nightstand to find my inhaler, pressing it against my lips with shaking hands.

She would hold me and whisper, "It’s okay, it's okay. Mom is here."

But that was a long time ago.

Back then, there was no Richard, no Leo, and no family portrait.

Back then, she still called me Starry.

Dinner was over.

Leo jumped off the sofa and ran to the TV stand, standing on his tiptoes to turn on the television.

The loud, high-pitched voices of a cartoon filled the room.

Suddenly, he seemed to remember something. He turned and walked over.

Lying on the floor, I heard the slap-slap of his slippers getting closer.

"Stella."

He squatted down, bringing his face close to mine. A five-year-old’s face, pale and round.

He tilted his head, looking at me with a serious expression, as if examining an injured cat.

"Stella, are you really dead?"

I didn't move. Not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't.

The fire in my chest was still burning, and every breath felt like swallowing shards of glass.

He reached out and poked my cheek.

"Get up and play with me."

His finger was warm, smelling of sweet apples.

I still didn't move.

He stood up and stepped on my hair.

Not hard, just a testing tap, like stepping on an object to see what it was.

Then he ran away, his slippers pitter-pattering as the cartoon continued to blare.

A moment later, Richard walked over.

His leather slippers made a creaking sound against the floor.

He stood over me, looking down, the smell of cigarette smoke washing over me.

"Still lying there?"

He nudged my shoulder with the toe of his shoe. I wobbled slightly but didn't move.

He squatted, grabbed my collar, and yanked me up from the floor.

My upper body left the ground, my collar choking my neck. My windpipe, already blocked, was completely squeezed shut.

My mouth hung open, like a fish gasping on dry land.

He let go.

I crashed back onto the floor. The back of my head hit the tiles, and my vision went white.

"Fine. If you love lying down so much, go lie outside."

He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the front door.

My back scraped against the floor, my shirt bunching up, leaving my skin to rub directly against the tiles.

It hurt, but it didn't matter anymore.

He opened the door and shoved me out.

My forehead struck the doorframe with a dull thud.

Warm blood trickled down from above my eyebrow, flowing into my eye, turning the world red.

The door shut.

With a click.