The last normal day wasn't really normal. But that's the thing about living in a slow-motion train wreck... you start calling anything that doesn't actively kill you "normal."
I was seventeen. My school uniform hadn't seen the outside of our closet in weeks. The fridge was empty. The power had been cut again.
But Sora was laughing. Just a little. She'd found a cracked handheld mirror on the fire escape and was using it to reflect sunlight onto the wall like it was a magic trick. She looked so proud.
"Look, big bro! I made the light dance!"
I smiled. I didn't mean to. It just happened. That was the thing about Sora. Even with her lungs falling apart, even with our mother passed out drunk in the next room, she could still find reasons to smile. Like she'd survived in her own little bubble of childhood wonder. Or maybe she just didn't know how to stop pretending everything was okay.
We didn't have breakfast. Or lunch. We had tap water and silence and the last two painkillers I broke in half for her fever. I remember standing by the sink, watching her sip from a cracked mug. Her lips were pale. Her hands shook.
I told myself she'd be fine. That she'd bounce back like always. But something in me — something deep and ugly — knew better.
Our mother wasn't always a monster. I remember her singing once. A stupid lullaby about stars and sheep. She was brushing Sora's hair with one hand and stirring instant noodles with the other. Her eyes had bags under them, and her voice cracked on the high notes, but it was soft. Warm.
That was before the pills. Before the shouting. Before she looked through us like we were stains she couldn't scrub out.
Now? Now she was a ghost stuffed into human skin. A twitching, cursing, chain-smoking phantom that haunted the apartment at all hours.
The day everything shattered, she came home wired and wide-eyed. Her mascara was smudged like war paint. Her jacket reeked of rain and smoke and something sour underneath. I should've hidden the medicine. I should've known.
"Where is it?" she snapped. No greeting. No hello.
I stepped between her and Sora's room. "We used it. For Sora's fever."
Wrong answer. She shoved me. Hard. Her hands were bony, but the weight behind them was pure rage. "You wasted it?" she shrieked. "You selfish little shit!"
"I saved her with it," I snapped back, louder than I meant to. "You weren't here."
She swung at me. The slap didn't even surprise me anymore. I'd stopped flinching after the third or fourth time. This one landed across my cheekbone. Clean. Sharp. My ears rang.
And then — the knife. She grabbed it from the sink. The one we used to cut packets open. Nothing fancy. Not even sharp. She pointed it at me with both hands, trembling.
"You should'nt have been born," she hissed. There it was. The rot beneath everything. The truth behind her dead eyes.
I didn't say anything. I just looked at her. Really looked. She wasn't my mother anymore. Just a shell that hated everything it was forced to remember.
Days went by. The coughs started small. Little things. Harmless things. At least, that's what I told myself. But within a week, Sora couldn't go two minutes without clutching her chest like she was being squeezed from the inside. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her lips turned the wrong color.
I tried boiling water. Adding lemon. Wrapping her up in three layers of blankets. Nothing worked. The clinic wouldn't take us. No insurance. No guardian. No point.
So I went to the old woman in the building across from ours — the one who still wore her nurse scrubs even though she hadn't worked in ten years. She came. She looked. She sighed. "She's got fluid in her lungs," she told me quietly. "Could be pneumonia. Could be worse."
"Can't we… take her somewhere?" She gave me a long look. The kind people give when they already know the answer and hate saying it. "You don't have the money, do you?"
I didn't reply. "Then keep her warm. Keep her hydrated. And pray, if you believe in anything." That was it. No prescription. No miracles. Just a maybe.
No gasp. No cry. No final word. Just stillness. The silence wasn't quiet. It was a physical weight, thick with the smell of stale sweat and the ghost of lemon I'd added to the water hours ago. Her small hand in mine felt like cold porcelain, already slipping away from the warmth of memory.
I shook her. Once. Twice. Nothing. "Sora…" I said her name like saying it would pull her back. Like I could reach into the dark and yank her out by the wrist. But she didn't move. She didn't smile. She didn't breathe.
And something inside me cracked. Loud and permanent. I screamed into her pillow. Bit down so hard I tasted blood. I didn't want to wake the neighbors. I didn't want anyone to hear how broken I sounded. I wanted to crawl into the floor and never get up.
Time came on for her funeral. Mom didn't show up. I stood there in the drizzle, staring at the dirt like it had stolen her. She deserved better. A better goodbye. A better life. A better family.
I don't know when I left the graveyard. But I remember my feet moving on their own, taking me to the place I swore I wouldn't go again. Home.
The apartment was dark. Of course it was. She was in the kitchen, lighting a cigarette with one hand and tipping a bottle back with the other. I didn't announce myself. I just stood there, staring.
She looked up. "Oh. Look who finally came crawling back." No apology. No shame. Just that crooked smirk.
"I buried her today," I said. She snorted. "Good for you. Now we don't have to keep wasting money on that sick little—"
"Don't." Something in my voice made her pause.
"You weren't even there," I said. "You didn't say goodbye." "She was weak."
I snapped. "You should've died instead of Sora." The words were poison. They came out sharp and jagged and louder than I meant.
Her eyes went wide. Not with pain. With fury. She slapped me across the face. Hard. I stumbled back. My lip split. Blood hit my tongue.
"You little bastard," she hissed. "You think you're better than me?" She reached behind the counter. I saw it a second too late — the knife. Same one as always. Dull. Dirty. Familiar.
"You want me dead so bad?" she said, stepping forward. "Do it yourself." "I'm not doing this," I said, holding up my hands. "Just… drop it. Please."
She swung. I dodged. We struggled. My hands grabbed her wrists, trying to wrestle the knife away. We slipped. The floor was wet. I don't know with what.
Then pressure. Her body jerked. I looked down. The knife was between us. Blood soaked my hands. Hers, not mine.
She blinked up at me, confused. Like she wasn't sure if this was real. Then she crumpled. I caught her — or tried to — but she was already folding in on herself. She hit the floor. Hard.
Silence followed. Just my breath. Just her blood. Just guilt, creeping in like frostbite. I didn't run. I sat there on the kitchen floor for a long time. Just staring at my hands. They wouldn't stop shaking. Blood had dried between my fingers, sticky and dark. It was under my nails. On my sleeves. Everywhere.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Then came the knock. Soft at first. Then louder. Someone called out. I couldn't make out the words. Then sirens. Distant. Faint. But getting closer. And I knew. The neighbors must've heard us. The yelling. The fight. Maybe even the scream. Of course they called. Of course they did.
And now I was standing over a dead woman with blood on my hands and no way to explain that I hadn't meant for any of it to happen. My legs moved before my brain caught up. I grabbed my backpack. Shoved in the photo, the storybook, and a handful of loose coins. Out the window. Down the fire escape. Into the alley. The sirens were louder now. Lights flashing down the block. I ran.
After a long time of running, i found myself on the rooftop. The city looked different from up high. Smaller and Quieter. Like if I jumped, I could actually outrun all the noise.
I stood on the edge, wind tugging at my clothes, buildings blinking like tired eyes. The photo was in my hand. Sora's smile worn and faded. She had a popsicle in one hand and a peace sign in the other. I folded it carefully. Slipped it into my pocket and yes, i didn't realize i still had a the knife on my hand.
Then a gunshot came before the warning. Figures. "Freeze!" The bullet grazed my shoulder. Hot flash. Not that I cared. Pain's been background noise for years. This? This was just punctuation.
Below me, the city sprawled like a bad memory. Neon lights blinked like they were too tired to keep pretending they had purpose. I used to think this place might save me. Joke's on me, right?
"Drop the weapon!" I looked down at the knife. Her knife. Still stained. Still warm. The last thing my mother gave me. Unless you count trauma. Which, let's be honest, is the real family heirloom. "You should've died instead of her," she'd said. Just before trying to stab me. Again. And maybe she was right. Maybe I'm the villain in someone else's sob story.
"Big bro, look! A ladybug!" Sora. Back when the world hadn't fallen apart yet. Or maybe it already had, and we were just too young to notice. She was crouched in the alley, smiling like it was the first time she'd ever seen hope. "Even with all the dirt, it still flies," she whispered. Yeah. That was her. Covered in scars and still trying to reach the sky.
Now.....
More cops. More guns. More yelling. "Kid, don't do this!" one of them called. Like I hadn't already done it.
"She's dead," I said. Flat. Final. Technically, I didn't kill her. Technically, she lunged. Technically, she fell on the knife. But nobody wants technical. They want blame.
I let the knife fall. The cops stiffened, like they thought this was me surrendering. I took a step back. "Wait—!" I spread my arms. Finally, I let go.
Falling felt like -freedom. No more weight. No more noise. Just wind and the faint memory of her laugh. Then concrete. It hurt. Bad. But only for a second. Then came the darkness. Quiet. Clean. So this is dying. It wasn't bad at all. Except I wasn't alone.