My Bone Marrow? Not For My Killer

Chapter 3

Three days after the mobilization rally, Mireille was admitted to the intensive care unit.

The news broke at noon, and the cafeteria exploded into chaos.

"I heard she is in a coma!"

"The doctor said if she does not get a transplant, she will not last two weeks!"

"Who is the match? Why is the school keeping it a secret?"

I carried my tray to a corner table and sat down.

In my last life, after I donated my bone marrow, Mireille's mother brought me lunch for three months straight.

Hearty pork rib stew, creamy chicken soup, fish broth.

Then Mireille recovered. Then the soups stopped.

Then Mireille sneered, "Someone like you does not deserve food from my family's kitchen."

I punctured the fried egg with my fork. The yolk oozed out, a rich, golden yellow.

Just as I took a bite, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was my Mom.

"Sybilla, have you eaten yet?"

"Yes, Mom. Sitting in the cafeteria right now."

"Did you get the results from that follow-up blood screening? I do not understand much about these medical things, but people are saying a girl at your school is desperately ill and needs a bone marrow donor. Your blood type is quite rare, is it not?"

I paused, keeping my tone steady. "Mom, I was not a match."

There was a two-second silence at the other end, followed by a long, trembling exhale of relief. "Oh, thank heaven. I heard harvesting is brutal on the body, and you are already far too thin."

"I am completely fine."

"Just make sure you eat properly, alright? If you run out of allowance, tell me right away."

"I will." I hung up and returned to my meal.

In my last life, I had volunteered for the procedure without telling her a single word. She only learned the truth after I was murdered.

While my corpse lay in the morgue, my mother knelt on the freezing linoleum of the hospital corridor, weeping until her voice tore.

Valerie told me later. She said my mother knelt there for four hours, begging for answers.

I swallowed the egg and forced down several forkfuls of rice.

At the next table, students were murmuring intently.

"I heard it was Sybilla Carrow from Class Twelve who matched."

"No way, really?"

"Someone spotted her at the clinic getting extensive lab work done."

"Then why on earth is she refusing to donate?"

"No idea. Apparently her health is poor?"

"Her health is worse than Mireille's? Mireille is literally dying in the hospital!"

I picked up a forkful of greens and chewed twice. Bitter.

*****

On the fourth day after Mireille entered the intensive care unit, during the final study hall of the afternoon, the homeroom teacher summoned me to the faculty office. I was not the only one waiting inside.

Mireille's mother was there. She looked even more withered now, her cheekbones protruding sharply as though chiseled from bone.

The second she saw me step across the threshold, she surged to her feet, her knee striking the heavy oak desk leg with a dull thud.

"Sybilla." She lunged forward, snatching my wrist. Her skin was like ice.

"Sybilla, Auntie is begging you. The specialists said only you... only you can save my daughter." Her frame sagged, her knees buckling beneath her.

She was about to collapse onto the floor again.

This time, I refused to let her drop.

I caught her wrists firmly and held her upright.

"Mrs. Hollis, please do not do this."

"Sybilla, please."

"My physical condition is not suitable," I said, meeting her hollow, sunken gaze. "The clinic physician confirmed the harvest carries severe complications for me."

"I will pay you! I will give you every single penny in my accounts!"

"I do not want your money."

"Then what do you want? Name anything, and I will give it to you! You can strike Mireille! You can strike me! You can—"

"Mrs. Hollis," I spoke clearly, cutting her frantic spiral short.

She froze.

I looked at the lines carved deep into her face.

In my past life, she had pleaded with me with this same desperation.

She had cradled my hand and sobbed, "You are an angel sent from heaven, our family's great savior."

Later, her daughter hurled me down a flight of concrete stairs. She settled my life with five thousand dollars.

She sat in the security office, watched the surveillance footage three times through, and looked away.

Then she declared, "It was merely an accident, roughhousing between children."

"Mrs. Hollis," I asked quietly, "did every single member of your family undergo histocompatibility screening?"

Her expression went blank. "Her father's relatives? Her cousins? Even her second cousins?"

Her chapped lips quivered. "All of them... every single one tested... not one viable match..."

"Then why must the entire school demand that an unrelated classmate give up their marrow?"

The faculty office fell into a suffocating quiet.

The amber glow of the setting sun spilled through the blinds, painting Mrs. Hollis's gaunt face in an ashen hue.

Beside the desk, Mrs. Sterling cleared her throat awkwardly. "Sybilla, regarding this situation, the administration naturally respects your personal choice, but—"

"That is reassuring to hear," I cut in, shifting my gaze directly to him. "Mrs. Sterling, thank you for respecting my personal autonomy."

Her jaw opened, then snapped shut, caught entirely flat-footed.

Mrs. Hollis's fingers were still clamped around my hand. Her fingernails dug painfully into my skin.

"Sybilla..."

"Mrs. Hollis, release me."

She did not loosen her grip.

"Auntie is begging you on her life. If you do not donate, Mireille will die."

I cast my eyes down at her hand.

Her knuckles were stark and skeletal, blue veins standing out against the pale flesh.

In my previous life, those very hands had carried thermal jars of chicken soup to my desk.

In my previous life, those very hands had shoved my grieving mother back from the morgue doors, hissing, "Stop causing a scene in public. We have already agreed to write the settlement check."

"Mrs. Hollis," I said softly, steadily peeling her fingers off my wrist one by one, "I suggest you look for another donor."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit.

"Sybilla Carrow!" Mrs. Sterling's voice cracked with authority behind me.

I did not pause, nor did I look back.

The moment I pushed into the hallway, Corinne was standing there. She leaned flat against the lockers, her arms folded tightly across her chest, glaring at me with venom.

"Sybilla, you truly are a soulless monster."

I met her stare. The dying sunlight at the end of the long corridor slashed across her features, leaving half her face sickly pale and the other half swallowed in shadow.

"Corinne, where were you last Wednesday afternoon?"

She blinked, totally thrown off balance.

"Last Wednesday afternoon, Mireille was hooked to an intravenous drip in the oncology ward, enduring high-dose chemotherapy. Tabitha Cross was sitting right beside her bed. Greer Linwood was at the clinic drawing blood for compatibility tests."

I took one deliberate step closer. "You were out on the courtyard court playing badminton."

Corinne's face instantly lost every drop of color.

"You call yourself her dearest companion," I said, locking my gaze onto hers. "While your best friend was vomiting through chemical poison, you were working on your backhand. And you dare to block my path and call me heartless?"

Her lips twitched frantically. "I... what does playing badminton have to do with anything..."

"Nothing at all," I said, brushing smoothly past her shoulder. "Cardio is wonderful for your health. Keep it up."

I walked down the corridor without looking back.