Chapter 5: The Blame Game

When I arrived at the hospital, not only were my uncle and aunt there, but my parents had also arrived.

The waiting room was packed, the air thick with the scent of old coffee and Lysol. My dad paced by the vending machines, my mom whispering with Aunt Linda by the window.

As soon as I pushed the door open, a coffee mug came flying at me.

I ducked just in time. The mug exploded against the linoleum, coffee splattering my shoes.

I dodged, and the mug shattered on the floor with a crash.

Nurses peeked around the corner, eyebrows raised. I straightened, heart racing, but kept my expression cool.

"Get out! All of you get out!"

Tyler’s voice was raw, hoarse from screaming. His face was twisted in pain and fury.

"Are you all here to laugh at me? My legs are gone!"

His words hit the air like a slap. Aunt Linda started sobbing again.

"Both my legs are gone! I want to kill you all!"

He beat his fists weakly against the bed rails, the sheets tangled around his waist.

I was startled and looked at the hospital bed.

The sight stopped me cold: Tyler sprawled in the middle, body shrunken, bandages bright white against his tanned skin.

Sure enough, on the bed, from the base of Tyler's thighs down, nothing remained, both legs now wrapped in bandages.

I tried not to gag at the sight. The reality of it was so much worse than memory.

Unlike my previous life, when he only lost one leg and the other was saved in time—now, both legs were gone!

I sucked in a breath. This was new. The timeline had shifted, and not in anyone’s favor.

Wasn't it supposed to be only one leg?

My mind raced, piecing together everything I’d done differently this time.

Seeing my shocked expression, Tyler glared at me, like he wanted to eat me alive.

His eyes were red-rimmed, burning with accusation. I forced myself not to look away.

"Jason, are you happy now? Why did you come so late!"

His words tumbled out in a torrent. He sounded more like a wounded animal than my cousin.

"If you'd come earlier, would I have had the strength to kick over the anesthesiologist and delay the treatment!"

He spat the words, voice cracking.

"At least, at least I'd still have one leg!"

His lip trembled, a flicker of the old bravado flickering out.

"I'll kill you, I want to kill you!"

He lunged, but fell back, powerless.

But…

Both legs gone, Tyler just lay there, trapped in his own fury, helpless as a kid locked out in the cold.

The room was thick with grief and blame, but no one moved to comfort him. His screams echoed down the sterile hallway.

My uncle and aunt whimpered on the side, saying nothing.

Uncle Mike’s face was pale, his hands trembling in his lap. Aunt Linda stared at the floor, eyes glassy with shock.

My parents, as if something was wrong with them, actually echoed Tyler's words.

They exchanged glances, searching for someone to blame.

My mom even slapped me on the back.

The sting snapped me back to childhood, all those times I’d been blamed for things I couldn’t control.

"That's right, Tyler, why did you come so late!"

Her voice was shrill, thick with accusation.

"Didn't your aunt tell you to come back early? You…"

She glared at me, as if my absence was criminal.

"If you'd been here, you could've kept Tyler in check, he wouldn't have kicked the anesthesiologist!"

I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to snap back.

"Do you know? The anesthesiologist already had the needle ready, but with that kick, he stabbed himself!"

She gestured wildly, her face blotchy with anger and tears.

"It wasn't until another anesthesiologist came down from the OR that he could be treated, and this delay wasted more than an hour!"

Every sentence piled the blame higher. My face burned with shame and anger.

"If you had been here, this wouldn't have happened…"

Her voice trailed off, but the judgment was clear.

Listening to my mom's nagging, I couldn't help but feel a chill inside.

I felt like a child again, scolded for things I couldn’t control. The old pain prickled along my spine.

It's always like this, always like this.

No matter what, it’s my fault. Always has been.

When facing outsiders, the first thing they do is always push the responsibility onto me.

It’s like a reflex: family first, Jason last.

When we were little, my cousin came to my house to eat, snatched my chicken drumstick, I took it back, my cousin cried, and my mom scolded me—said I didn't know how to care for my cousin.

That Christmas dinner, my mom yanked me aside, hissing, “You’re older. Share!” while Tyler grinned, grease on his chin.

My cousin fought at school, the other kid's parents came, my parents said I didn't watch my cousin well.

I’d get called into the principal’s office, forced to apologize for fights I didn’t start.

Even when my cousin thought studying was useless and delivering food paid better, they made me try to persuade him, and when I couldn't, they said I was useless.

Every family barbecue became a lecture: “Why can’t you talk sense into Tyler?”

My cousin's life was ruined—somehow, it was all my fault.

The verdict was always the same: Jason’s to blame.

I don't understand.

The words circled in my mind, a bitter refrain.

Why are they always so tolerant to outsiders, acting like such good people, but always push responsibility onto me?

It’s like the Midwest way—smile for the neighbors, save the harsh words for home.

It was like this in my previous life.

Every mistake, every accident, every heartbreak—they found a way to tie it to me.

And now, it's still like this.

Nothing changes, not really.

But it's fine. Since I already know what they're like, I was prepared.

I set my shoulders, resolved. I wouldn’t let them drag me down again.