They Guarded My Sister's Last Day and Let Me Die Alone

Everyone in the family could see the countdown hanging over my sister's head. We all knew she was going to die the moment she turned sixteen. After that, Stella Hayes became the center of everyone's world. The good snacks were hers. The pretty dresses were hers. Even the bedtime stories our parents told before sleep were hers. I felt for her, and yet I envied her for having all of their favoritism. I waited and waited for her sixteenth birthday to finally come, but when it did, our parents locked me in the storage closet with a high fever, afraid I would cause a scene. I pounded on the door in a panic. "Mom, let me out. I have a fever. My head hurts so bad..." "Enough," my mother snapped through clenched teeth. "Your sister is going to die today. Can't you just hold it together for once?" "But I feel so awful..." Gradually, the sounds outside the door faded away, and everything went hazy... My body suddenly felt weightless. Through the old wooden door, I could see the warm glow of the living room lights. My parents were pressed close to Stella on the couch, my mother gently patting her back while my father sat with his head bowed, his shoulders trembling. Stella was wearing the only new dress she owned. The hem was pale blue, embroidered with tiny stars. Her face looked especially pale in the lamplight, her lips nearly colorless. "Mom, Dad, is she really okay?" Stella's voice was soft and thick with congestion. "I heard her crying about her head hurting..." "Don't worry about her," my mother said, reaching up to cup Stella's cheek, smoothing the loose strands of hair from her forehead. "She's not really sick. She's just trying to get attention. You only have one more day before you..." Her voice caught in her throat, her eyes going red. "Just focus on your birthday tomorrow. Don't let her ruin your mood." Stella pressed her lips together and said nothing, but the crease between her brows deepened. I knew she had always felt like she owed me something. For as long as I could remember, every last bit of favoritism in our house had been poured onto her. I had to watch with longing just to get a spoonful of warm scrambled eggs, let alone new clothes or new toys. But Stella would always sneak her snacks to me, take in her new dresses so they'd fit me, and be the first to step in front of me whenever our parents started yelling. She always said, "Claire, I'm sorry. It's because of me that you get treated this way." But our parents didn't see it that way. My mother would sigh and look at Stella with eyes full of pity. "Stop defending her all the time. That girl has been jealous of you since she was old enough to remember. You haven't forgotten your fourteenth birthday, have you?" Stella's fourteenth birthday was the first time I truly understood that she was going to die. That day, for the first and only time, our family bought a cream cake, fourteen thin candles pressed into the top. My mother lit them with careful hands while my father held up his old camera, the one he'd had for years, wanting to capture one of the few birthdays Stella would ever have. I watched from behind the door. I watched the candlelight flicker across her face. I watched her close her eyes and make a wish. I watched my parents struggle to hold back their tears. Then I ran out. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was the unbearable reality that the sister who had always been gentle with me was going to leave. I shoved the cake off the table. Frosting splattered across the floor, and the candles rolled into the corner and went out. "I don't want to watch you celebrate her birthday!" I screamed, throwing a full-blown tantrum. I still remember the way my parents looked at me. When my father's hand came down, I didn't move. Once, twice, three times... My mother stood to the side and cried, but she didn't stop him. It was Stella who threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around me and putting her thin body between me and my father. "Stop hitting her, Dad, please stop!" she cried, her voice shaking as she held me tight. "It's my fault. It's all my fault..." That night, she slipped into my room and pressed half a piece of candy she'd been saving into my hand. There was a red mark on her wrist where a chair had scraped her when she'd shielded me earlier that day. "Claire, I'm sorry," she said softly, her fingers brushing lightly against my swollen cheek. "I'll be gone soon. After that... after that, there won't be anyone left to take things from you." Back in the living room, my mother touched Stella's face and gently smoothed the loose strands of hair from her forehead. "Stella, don't pay her any mind," she said, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "That girl has been jealous of you her whole life. You know that." I stood frozen. She was right. I had been jealous of Stella. Jealous of all the favoritism she received, jealous of her new dresses, jealous that when she ran a fever our mother would stay by her side through the night, jealous that even with only one day left to live, she was still the child they treasured most. I drifted over to her, reaching out to take her hand, wanting to tell her that I really did have a fever, that my head really did hurt. But my hand passed straight through her body, like reaching through a cloud of mist. I hung there in midair, staring blankly at my own translucent fingers. I turned and looked back at the closed door of the storage closet. A faint sliver of light leaked through the c***k at the bottom. I drifted over and passed through the door, and on the other side I saw myself, curled up among the clutter. I was already dead. My death clock had run out before Stella's ever did.