My Bone Marrow? Not For My Killer

Chapter 2

The day after Mireille's mother sobbed her heart out over the school broadcast, the entire student body gathered for a mobilization assembly.

Out on the sports field, across the flag-raising platform, a crimson banner with stark white lettering snapped in the wind.

"Let Life Continue, Let Love Pass On. A Bone Marrow Donation Drive for Mireille Hollis, Class Twelve, Senior Year."

I stood in the middle of the formation, watching the banner billow and strain against the gusts.

In my previous life, when I had stood in this very spot, a crimson "Life Hero" pin had been clipped to the lapel of my jacket.

Mireille's mother had fastened it on me with her own hands.

"Sybilla," she had said, "you saved my little girl's life."

That pin was later ripped away by Mireille herself, cornering me in the restroom.

"You don't deserve this," she had spat.

The cheap plastic piece tumbled into the toilet bowl, bobbing on the filthy water.

"Now, let us welcome Mireille's mother to say a few words."

She climbed onto the stage, a woman barely in her forties, reduced to skin and bones, her eyes swollen like bruised plums.

The microphone was handed to her, and her hands quivered violently.

"Students... Mireille never had a father... I raised her all by myself, struggling through every single day..."

A wave of sniffling broke across the crowd below.

"She is only eighteen... she still wants to take the university entrance exams... she dreams of going to college in the capital..."

Beside me, Valerie dabbed at her eyes. Up front, Tabitha Cross was already weeping openly.

"I am begging you...whoever is a match... please come forward... I will get down on my knees..."

And she did. Her knees slammed onto the concrete of the platform with a heavy, hollow thud.

The field erupted.

"Who is the match? Step forward already!"

"Don't make her kneel like that!"

"What is the big deal with matching? Does donating bone marrow kill you?"

From somewhere behind me, a voice shouted, "If someone is a match and refuses to donate, then they are basically a murderer!"

'Murderer.'

In my previous life, after Mireille recovered and declared, "If you don't donate, you're a murderer," the exact same people had stood behind her. They had clapped for me back then, too.

"Everyone, quiet down!" Mrs. Sterling charged onto the stage and helped Mireille's mother to her feet.

I dropped my gaze to the tips of my shoes. Worn canvas sneakers. The right one was coming unglued at the sole. Mom had promised to buy me a new pair this coming weekend.

In my previous life, I never made it to that weekend. Saturday afternoon, Mireille shoved me down the stairs. Sunday morning, my body lay on a slab in the morgue. I never got those shoes.

"Sybilla."

Someone tapped my arm. I turned. It was my homeroom teacher.

She lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, "About that anemia you mentioned? I consulted the school nurse today. She said your hemoglobin is only slightly low, that it won't impede the donation at all."

I stared right into her face. "Mrs. Sterling, did the nurse say anything about the long-term risks after the harvest?"

She paused, caught off balance. "What risks?"

"Some donors see their blood counts fail to recover even six months after the procedure. Some end up with chronic, debilitating fatigue. Some—"

"Sybilla," she cut me off, her tone sharp with impatience. "Those are extreme, isolated cases. You are young and healthy; your body will bounce back quickly."

"And what if it doesn't?"

She froze, utterly unprepared for the challenge.

I held her gaze, refusing to offer another word.

Mrs. Sterling parted her lips, then released a heavy, irritated sigh. "Fine. It is your decision." She turned and strode away.

I stood rooted in the center of the formation, swallowed by the roar of coordinated slogans.

"Save Mireille!"

"If you matched, step up!"

"A life is on the line!"

I did not move a single muscle.

The wind howled down from the top of the flagpole, whipping the banner into a frantic rhythm.

I lifted my eyes to the red-and-white fabric.

"Let Life Continue, Let Love Pass On."

In my last life, I bought into that lie completely.

This time around?

I pulled my gaze away.

On stage, Mireille's mother was still weeping uncontrollably. Down below, hundreds of students were shouting themselves hoarse.

I simply pulled my uniform zipper all the way up, burying the lower half of my face in the collar.

The wind was brutal.

It was freezing, an icy, bone-deep cold.

*****

The second period that afternoon was physical education.

During free activity, I sat alone on the cold bleachers by the track, memorizing vocabulary words.

Corinne Pike walked over.

Her eyes were still swollen and red-rimmed from earlier as she locked her sight onto me.

"Sybilla, come with me for a second."

"What is it?"

"Just come."

I snapped my book shut.

I followed her to the sports equipment shed tucked behind the field. Mireille's three loyal followers were already waiting inside.

Corinne Pike, Tabitha Cross, and Greer Linwood.

The exact same three from my past life.

After Mireille had recovered, they had been the primary executioners of my torment.

Corinne was the one who slapped my face raw in the bathroom stall. Tabitha was the one who dumped dirty water over my head in the corridor. And while Mireille gave the final push on the stairwell, Greer had been the first to grind her boot heel into my fingers.

"Sybilla," Corinne crossed her arms, "word is going around that you're the only match in the entire school."

I offered no response.

"What is going through your head?" Tabitha scowled deeply. "Mireille is literally on her deathbed. What is there even to hesitate about?"

Greer rubbed her arms, her tone sanctimonious. "If you had a shred of basic decency, you would do it. Sure, Mireille gave you a hard time before, but that is ancient history. She is dying right now, don't you understand that?"

"Sybilla," Corinne stepped closer, crowding my space. "Are you going to donate or not?"

I met her eyes without flinching.

The rusted metal door of the shed rattled and banged against the concrete wall in the wind.

"I am anemic," I said flatly. "The medical staff concluded I am not a suitable candidate."

Corinne's expression twitched with anger. "You..."

"I am not donating." My voice was quiet, but the words were cold and razor-sharp.

Corinne's face flushed crimson. "Sybilla, what kind of soulless monster are you? Mireille is dying and you..."

"Then why don't you three get tested?" I looked straight at each of them in turn. "Have any of you even bothered to provide a sample?"

All three girls froze, their mouths shutting tight at once. The crimson on Corinne's cheeks drained away, leaving her chalk-white.

"We... we are her closest friends..."

"Shouldn't her closest friends be the first in line to offer their blood?"

A freezing draft swept into the room. Not one of them could muster a syllable.

I stepped right around them, walked a few paces toward the gravel path outside, and paused.

"Corinne, do you remember last winter? When you locked me inside this equipment shed for an entire double period?"

Dead silence hung in the room behind me.

"I pounded and screamed for forty minutes, and not a single soul unlocked the latch. The temperature was three degrees below zero." I pushed the door wide open. Bright, pale sunlight struck my face.

Without turning around to look at them, I added, "After that day, I was bedridden with a high fever for a whole week. Did any of you ever drop by to see if I was still breathing?"

Not a breath came from behind me.