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WARNING--
> ⚠️ This chapter contains themes of childhood death and survivor's guilt. May be distressing for some readers.
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Summer vacation had begun with a rare feeling: calm.
For once, the house wasn't filled with yelling or slammed doors. The air was lighter, maybe because Reina had started visiting. After weeks of quiet friendship at school, Reina had asked shyly, "Can I come over sometime?"
Venessa had hesitated. No one had ever wanted to come. No one had ever asked.
But her little sister's eager tug on her hand, and the unusual silence from their mother, gave her the courage to nod.
Reina came the next afternoon. And the one after that.
In those few days, the house felt warmer—alive. Reina played hide-and-seek with her sister in the cramped rooms, taught her silly rhymes, and even helped Venessa clean the dishes without being asked. They shared stories, laughter, and little secrets between bites of sticky candy.
Venessa had never had a friend before. And now, for the first time in a long time, she thought maybe life could be... different.
But peace never lasted long in her world.
It happened on the fourth day.
Her father was away on a business trip. Her brother, as always, had been excused from everything and was off at a friend's house for a sleepover. That left just the three of them—Venessa, her sister, and their mother.
The tension had been building all morning. Their mother said little, but her sharp movements—banging drawers, snapping at small noises—spoke louder than words.
It began with a mistake. A small one. A towel left unfolded on the floor. Juice spilled on a freshly cleaned mat. Her sister's giggles too loud.
Something inside their mother snapped.
> "You two are nothing but burdens!"
"I slave every day while you sit and make a mess of everything!"
"Why do I even bother?!"
She stormed into the living room, eyes wild, fury radiating off her like heat.
Venessa stood in front of her sister without thinking.
The first slap landed on her cheek.
Then a second. A shove. She staggered back—and struck the edge of the wooden table. Pain burst behind her eyes. But she didn't cry. She only turned, dizzy and trembling, toward her sister.
The child was cowering in the corner, crying.
Their mother—breathing heavily, flushed with rage—snatched a nearby cushion and hurled it at them. Then, without another word, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
> "I need air," she muttered. "Don't follow me."
And she was gone.
Everything went quiet.
Venessa sat up slowly, head throbbing. Then she saw the blood.
Her little sister was on the floor. A thin trail of crimson trickled down her temple. Her limbs were too still.
"No," Venessa whispered, crawling toward her. "No, no, please…"
She pressed a towel to the wound. It soaked through in seconds.
She didn't know what to do. There was no one else home. No phone. No instructions.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely think. Her sister's breathing was shallow.
> "Stay awake. Please—just stay with me…"
Tears blurred her vision. She screamed for help but no one answered.
Without wasting another second, she bolted barefoot to the neighbor's house, hair messy, shirt stained red.
> "Please help!" she gasped. "My sister—she's hurt—she's bleeding—"
The old woman next door came at once, calling emergency services as they rushed back together.
But by the time they returned…
It was too late.
Her sister lay motionless, eyes closed. Pale. Too pale.
Paramedics arrived. They checked vitals. Tried resuscitation. One of them gently pulled a blanket over the small body.
Venessa collapsed beside her sister, sobbing now, broken pieces of her voice scraping through her throat.
The neighbor placed a trembling hand on her back. "I called your parents," she whispered. "They're on the way."
But Venessa didn't hear.
In her mind, she saw only one thing—
Her sister reaching for her in fear.
And her own hands, helpless.
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End of Chapter 3