Chapter 14: Ghostly Despair

I can’t sleep.

Ghosts won’t die from staying up late, so I just lie on the sofa, letting negative emotions flood me.

The couch is lumpy, the throw pillows scratchy. I stare at the popcorn ceiling, wondering if anyone will find my body before the smell gets too bad.

Sure enough, even as a ghost, I can’t escape late-night despair.

On the 35th hour after my death, my sister sends me a message.

The notification lights up the bathroom. I wish I could roll my eyes.

I’m bored out of my mind, lying on the bed thinking about what to do today, when my phone in the bathroom rings. I quickly float over, wondering who could be looking for me?

But as soon as I enter, my own corpse gives me a fright.

Soaking bloodlessly in the red bathtub—even I find myself a bit creepy.

"Ugh." I suddenly regret choosing this way to die.

On the phone screen is a Facebook message from my sister.

She says: "This morning, Derek brought New Year’s groceries to our house and asked if you’d gone home. Natalie, I’m your sister, I won’t hurt you. Remarrying Derek is best for you and our family, don’t be stubborn."

Her words are syrupy, but I can feel the barbs. She always knew how to wrap an insult in a velvet glove.

Five minutes later, she sends another: "Do you realize Derek’s status? Even after divorce, he brings New Year’s gifts to see us. Natalie, take the chance while you can."

The sense of urgency in her texts is almost comical. As if my happiness is a limited-time coupon, about to expire.

My sister is three years older than me. As a child, I admired her greatly.

She was excellent, had good grades, and was always the star at school events.

She sang solos at Christmas pageants, won science fairs, collected trophies like some kids collect Beanie Babies.

As a child, I only thought she was outstanding.

When I grew older, I started to realize—why did my parents pay for so many expensive classes for her, but only let me take the cheapest art classes?

She had piano lessons, ballet, summer camp in Maine. I got a watercolor set from Dollar Tree.

And when the family business started declining, the first classes they stopped were my cheap art classes.

My dreams always came last. I learned to swallow disappointment like cold medicine.

My parents’ favoritism made me admire my sister less, and she seemed to enjoy it, naturally treating me as a little follower.

She’d boss me around, send me on errands, then take all the credit when things went right.

Once, after I delivered a love letter for her to the school bully, I was cornered by the bully’s jealous girlfriend and her gang. My sister just glanced at me and walked away.

She didn’t even blink—just fixed her hair and left. When I came home injured, she told me to tell our parents not to mention her love letter to the bully.

She went to the same university as me, but by the time I enrolled, she was already studying abroad. She was an outstanding graduate, and at the school anniversary, she was invited back as an excellent alumna to give a speech.

She worked the room like a pro, shaking hands, taking selfies. I watched from the back row, invisible.

She saw me in the crowd but didn’t acknowledge me.

At home, she said disdainfully, "Natalie, can’t you dress better? If people knew my sister was so shabby, you’d ruin my reputation."

I smiled bitterly inside. Don’t they know why I look so poor?

She, too, contributed to my suicide.

Her words stuck with me long after she left, replaying in my mind every time I looked in the mirror.