Chapter 2

I dry-swallowed dozens of white sleeping pills.

No water.

The pills lodged in my throat, barely making it down.

My throat burned with a searing pain.

But this pain, compared to what I'd endured these past seven years, felt like nothing more than a mosquito bite.

My consciousness began to blur, like countless ants crawling through my brain.

I thought back to that fire seven years ago.

That night was just like this one. The villa caught fire.

My brother Lucas was trapped in his bedroom, crying like an abandoned child.

"Help! Save me!"

I didn't hesitate.

I rushed into the flames and pushed him out with all my strength.

He cried outside the inferno.

I burned inside it, my flesh charring.

Later, he woke up in the hospital without a scratch.

Mom held her perfect son and cried her heart out. "You scared me to death! Thank God you're okay. Thank God your face is okay."

No one asked if I was in pain.

I lay in the ICU for three months, wrapped head to toe in bandages like a mummy.

When I woke up, my brother held me and cried. "Aria, you're my hero. I'll protect you for the rest of your life."

I believed him.

I was such a fool.

My eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

From downstairs came the faint sound of a guitar.

Then a woman's laughter, playful and sweet.

"Lucas, you play so beautifully."

That was the famous actress, Yasmin.

The same woman who looked at me like I was trash, the one who made my mom force me back into the darkness.

The guitar music pierced through the floorboards, hammering against my heart with each note.

I used to play guitar too.

My fingers were long and slender, my nails had a pink sheen, and they looked beautiful when I pressed the chords.

Later, these hands burned together until they fused, like deformed chicken feet.

I tried touching the piano at home once. Mom rushed over and slapped my hands away.

"Don't touch it! Those rotted hands are disgusting just to look at!"

After that, I never touched an instrument again.

My stomach began churning violently—the pills were taking effect.

Spasms.

Convulsions.

I curled up on the floor like an abandoned, charred broken doll.

That suffocating feeling crept over me bit by bit.

But I actually felt relieved.

Before my vision went completely black, I struggled to move my body.

I dragged over an old cardboard box nearby and pulled out a white lace dress.

This was a birthday present Mom bought me seven years ago, three days before the accident.

She'd said, "My Aria looks best in white, like a little princess."

That was the last gift I ever received.

The dress had yellowed and smelled of mildew.

I clutched it tightly to my chest, as if holding onto the version of myself from seven years ago who hadn't been destroyed yet.

I closed my eyes.

I thought about how, if there was a next life and I could be a little prettier—didn't have to be very pretty, just clean.

Would Mom hug me more?

Would my brother not lock me in the attic?

There was no heartbreaking farewell.

No one rushed up to save me.

In this luxuriously decorated, glamorous villa attic, with the sound of laughter and joy coming from downstairs.

I rotted away in the darkness.

I died without a sound.