Revenge for my sister

When I came out of the hospital, the sky was still overcast. I carried my luggage back home, but the house was quiet and lifeless. My sister was hospitalized. She lay on the hospital bed, with tubes inserted all over her body, looking like a delicate and fragile porcelain doll. A week ago, she jumped from the top floor of her school building. If it hadn't been for the carport cushioning her fall, I would have been greeted by a cold, lifeless body. The school authorities remained silent about it, but hinted at my sister's complicated relationships with boys and a bad reputation. Our foster parents were given hush money of a hundred thousand and signed the withdrawal application. They did not welcome my arrival. I had spent most of the past few years in the hospital, so I didn't have a strong emotional bond with them. But they didn't dare to say anything and even seemed a bit servile. I knew they were afraid of me. They occupied my parents' house, disregarded my sister, and yet were afraid of me, a patient needing long-term hospitalization. When I was allowed to visit my sister again, she had been moved to a regular ward. In the noisy three-person room, my sister lay alone by the window. She was so thin, with almost no color in her face. I brought a fruit basket and placed it by her bed, just like other visitors. I knew she couldn't eat it, and she didn't understand why others did it. I was just imitating. Trying my best to make my sister look like she had a normal family member. A nurse came to clean my sister and I didn't leave. The robust woman handled her body as if she were playing with a broken doll. She took off my sister's hospital gown, and underneath the loose striped fabric, there were shocking scars. I pushed the woman away and traced my fingers over each scar. Burns. Stabs. Cuts from sharp objects. These scars had accumulated over the years. I was familiar with these marks, but they should only exist on my body. I needed to restrain my impulse with pain. But my sister was different from me. She was like a small animal. Timid yet kind-hearted. She feared pain to the point where even the new wounds on my body made her cry. Then how did she get these scars? "This is really a tragedy. A good girl has been mistreated like this," I said, looking at the nurse. "Could she have done this to herself?" The nurse widened her eyes. "Young lady, would you inflict such serious injuries on yourself?" I would. But I didn't answer. The nurse pursed her lips. "You're her sister, right? These injuries don't look normal at all. Look at those calluses on her fingers. The hard parts inside are scabs of healed wounds. And the thighs, they look like they were cut with a knife..." I touched my sister's fingers, a few of which were already deformed. Then I lifted the blanket and pulled down my sister's hospital pants. "Oh my, you little one!" the nurse came over to pull me away, but I grabbed her wrist and stopped her. Aside from the burns on her legs, there were also words cut with a knife - "M Dog", "Toilet"... When I got back home, our foster parents had already prepared dinner. They had deliberately saved a spot in the east, and the tableware was neatly arranged. "Ziqi, your mom made your favorite plum ribs today," our foster mother said with a forced smile, nervously welcoming me. I glanced at the two anxious people. "I don't like it," I put down my bag and calmly repeated, "I don't like plum ribs." The woman stood up suddenly. "Mom... Mom, I'll make you something else!" I tilted my head slightly, looking at the couple clutching each other's clothes. "Are you afraid?" I took a step closer. "Are you afraid of me?" Our foster father also stood up, gripping the chopsticks, his arm trembling slightly. I looked at him. "Why?" "What's the difference between me and my sister?" My sister's room still had her elementary school awards displayed on the walls. The table was very clean, with only a notebook and a few carbon pens in the drawer. I opened the notebook, only to find it hollowed out to hold a cell phone. It was a very old and broken phone, with an outdated keyboard. I entered the password and saw the last message my sister had sent before jumping off the building: "Save me, please!" Recipient - the dearest sister in the world. I covered my face and laughed silently. My sister had reached the end of the road. In her final moment of giving up her life, she chose to send a distress message to the person who was destined to be unable to save her. In addition to the message, there was also an audio recording on the phone. In the midst of my sister's painful and desperate cries and pleas, there was the abuser's taunting insults and laughter. I replayed the audio repeatedly until the power was completely drained. Then I stretched and walked to the living room. "Help me with the enrollment procedures," I said to our foster father, who looked shocked. "The sooner, the better."