Born As Kidney Donor For My Sister

In the cold storage, the moment my breath halted, my soul was swiftly extracted, and my brief life replayed rapidly in my consciousness.

Piece by piece, it was a panorama of despair.

I saw myself at eight, waking from nightmares and crying under the covers, at ten struggling to fit into normal life, wounded and huddled in a corner from Nash’s cruel words, and terrified in the storage room, locked in by Lydia. I saw the grass where the attack happened, with my work documents still scattered, awaiting a late shift.

My belongings were taken by my mother and others–the phone collected by the killer and the diary found in my house. I suspect the killer relied on the information in my phone to relive that night.

He even continued to pay for my phone service. I don’t know if learning about my life made him feel pity, but I am certain he discovered one thing: this phone has never rung since my death.

I followed my family back home, where they sat at the table in orderly silence, as if deep in thought, recollection, or repentance.

I sat on the sofa, coldly observing their silence. What could they be thinking?

As I looked around, I felt that only Bronx truly mourned for me.

I had known Bronx for a long time, even before he knew me. He was the student council president in high school, handsome and brilliant.

Like other girls, I dreamed of fairy–tale romance.

That day, Lydia locked me in the dark storage room, and I pounded on the door, crying and begging her to let me out. I don’t know how long I cried, but eventually, Bronx came to rescue me. Looking at his face, which appeared even gentler under the moonlight, I hated myself for being so helpless, for not even having the right to pursue him.

Bronx asked if I was okay, and I silently shook my head. He took me home and bought me some hot dogs from a convenience store along the way. The steam clouded my vision, and I couldn’t see his expression, but I kept thanking him over and over.

When I got home, my mother was clearing the table. She glanced at me as I came in but showed no concern for why I was home at this hour or for my disheveled clothes and tear–streaked face. She merely gave me a bowl of soup and then left me alone.

Later, my relationship with Bronx grew a bit closer. In my second year of high school, when my grades were not so great, I remained quietly reserved, and the teacher decided that Bronx should tutor me. I felt he was like a gift from heaven–handsome, with beautiful handwriting, and so intelligent.

He would occasionally bring me breakfast, explain lessons carefully, and even drive me home if the tutoring went late. I was unable to escape the pull of this small kindness, and I often wondered how such a wonderful person could exist.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Even when I was in the depths of despair, seeing him filled me with the courage to climb back up.

My second year of high school was quite good. My stepfather, having grown older, had lost interest in those matters. Nash was away at university, and my relationship with Lydia had slightly improved. She stopped her childish targeting, and we could even have a calm meal together at the table.

Until Nash shattered everything once more.

It was just before the New Year of my senior year when the school kept us in for extra classes late into the evening. That day, it happened to snow, and Bronx walked me home. I watched our shadows under the streetlights, their unexpected intimacy under the orange glow.

I chatted with him cautiously, my heart full of youthful hopes and dreams, inching closer and closer to him. Watching the shadows under the streetlight grow shorter, I had the illusion that he was drawing nearer to me as well.

When we reached the doorstep, he urged me to study hard and aim for the same university as him. I nodded vigorously. He gently brushed the snowflakes off my head and said with a smile, “Alison, I’m waiting for you.”

I waved him off to go home, and as I turned around with a smile, I saw Nash standing in the shadows, cigarette in hand, having stood there for who knows how long.