Cutting Their Losses

When I was seven years old, my parents burned my birth certificate right in front of me at the dinner table. Across from me, my younger sister, Abigail Parker, calmly cut into her steak without even looking up. Dad said that raising two children was just another investment, and every investment had to be cut loose before the losses became too big. I was the loss they chose to write off. They poured every advantage into Abigail while leaving me to grow up in a dark, damp basement. Twenty years later, my parents are old, and Abigail, whom they placed on a pedestal, has become the most ruthless creditor they've ever faced. Standing in the dust-covered family home, I unfold a yellowed document titled Family Asset Divestment Agreement and can't help but laugh. This time, I'm the one settling the accounts. Chapter 1 The papers in the fire curled as the flames consumed them. Black ash drifted into the pot roast on the dinner table. They were photocopies of my birth certificate. My father, David Parker, wore the tailored suit he only put on for meetings with important clients. Not a single wrinkle marked the cuffs. "Hannah Parker, starting today, you're no longer an official member of this family." His voice wasn't loud, but the cold indifference in it left no room for hope. My mother, Jennifer Parker, sat beside him, peeling shrimp. One by one, she arranged the shrimp neatly onto Abby's plate. "In other words, from now on, the family budget only includes Abby," she said, sliding the plate toward my sister, Abigail Parker. Abigail smiled sweetly. "If Hannah doesn't behave, can we send her away?" Her childish voice sounded innocent, but every word drove into my ears like an icicle. Mom's hand paused for just a moment before she gently patted Abby's head. "You're so smart, sweetheart. I was thinking the same thing." I sat on a little wooden stool, my feet dangling above the floor. I didn't understand what it meant to be an "unofficial member". I only knew one thing. Tomorrow, I wouldn't be going to school anymore. Dad had already decided that tuition was a sunk cost—one that wasn't worth wasting on a child with no talent. "You can teach yourself," he said after taking a sip of soup. "If you do well enough, we might consider letting you become Abigail's study companion." Abigail turned to look at me. "I don't like her. She's ugly. I'd be embarrassed to take her anywhere." The room fell silent. Dad slowly set down his cutlery. "Then she can be the maid," he said matter-of-factly. "Cleaning, laundry... someone has to do those jobs." Mom didn't say a word. She simply pushed a plate of green peppers toward me—the one vegetable I'd always hated. "Eat. This will be your paycheck from now on." I ate until I was painfully full. The peppers were so spicy that my tongue went numb. That night, they moved my bed into the storage room. There were no windows. Only a ventilation fan buzzed endlessly overhead. Sometime after midnight, I woke up thirsty. I fumbled through the darkness and crept upstairs to find some water. As I passed the living room, I heard Mom crying. "I don't want to do this either. But you've seen it yourself. Abigail's a genius. We can't let anyone hold her back. If we raise both girls, we'll probably end up with two average daughters." Dad's voice was low, steady, and utterly matter-of-fact. "It's better to rip off the bandage now than make everyone suffer later." I stood frozen in the shadows. Suddenly, I wasn't thirsty anymore. I went back downstairs, curled up beneath the moldy blanket on my narrow bed, and stared into the darkness. In that moment, I knew I had already died. I died on a night when I was seven years old, burned alive in a fire they called reason. Chapter 2 The basement always smelled like mold and rotting orange peel. The orange peels Abigail tossed downstairs after she finished eating would rot in the corner. I was nine when I got pneumonia. I coughed so hard it felt like my lungs were coming apart. Every breath was like inhaling shards of broken glass. I didn't dare tell anyone. The last time I'd complained about a stomachache, Mom accused me of faking it to get out of washing dishes and made me stand in the corner for two hours. So this time, I endured it. During the day, I still scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees, polishing each tile one by one. When Abigail practiced the piano, I knelt beside her, turning the pages of her sheet music. Every time she hit a wrong note, she'd slam her heel onto the back of my hand. "You turned the page too soon!" she'd scream. The back of my hand swelled until it looked like a dinner roll. Purple bruises spread beneath my skin, with tiny spots of blood breaking through. But I couldn't pull my hand away. If I did, I'd be interrupting her concentration, and Dad would skin me alive. That night, my fever burned so high I drifted in and out of consciousness. I vaguely sensed someone coming downstairs. The footsteps were light—the soft rubber soles of house slippers against concrete. It was Abigail. She crouched in front of me with a popsicle in her hand. It was strawberry, my favorite flavor. She took a bite, and sticky-sweet juice dripped onto my face. "Hannah, are you going to die?" she asked. I couldn't even open my eyes. All I could do was gasp for air. "If you die, I'm going to burn all your stuff." Then she shoved the half-eaten popsicle down the collar of my shirt. The freezing cold jolted my body upright for an instant before I collapsed back onto the mattress. "Quit pretending," she said as she stood over me. "If you die, who's going to wash my stinky socks?" She left me covered in sticky, melted sugar and chilled to the bone. The next morning, I couldn't get out of bed. By the time Dad found me, the fever was so high I couldn't speak. He pressed a hand to my forehead and frowned. "Taking her to the hospital would be too much trouble," he said. "Besides, she might infect Abby." Mom was upstairs brushing Abigail's hair before her speech competition. "Do we still have any fever medicine? Give her a couple of pills." Dad went to find the medicine. The pills had long since expired. They were yellowed, dry, and crumbling. I couldn't swallow them, so he pinched my nose shut and forced them down my throat. The bitter taste hit immediately. I started choking, then threw up all over the bed. "That's disgusting!" Mom shouted from upstairs. "Don't get it on the rug! That Persian rug was imported!" Dad grabbed me by the hair and dragged me into the bathroom. He threw me into the bathtub and turned on the cold water. "Clean yourself up," he ordered. The icy water poured over me, and my entire body convulsed uncontrollably. I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a rasping whimper. He didn't even look back. He locked the bathroom door and walked away. The water kept running. It rose past my ankles, then my knees. I lay slumped against the edge of the tub, staring at the whirlpool circling the drain. I wondered if the water could carry me somewhere Abigail didn't exist. But I didn't die. I survived. Like a sewer rat, too stubborn to die—so stubborn it was disgusting. After that, I never got sick again. Or maybe I just never dared to get sick again. Chapter 3 I was twelve. Abigail started at Blackwood Academy, the best middle school in the city. It was an elite private school. One semester's tuition was enough to keep me alive for ten years. Her uniform was custom-tailored. The hem of her skirt fell exactly an inch above her knees, showing off her smooth, slender legs. My clothes were altered from her hand-me-downs. Nothing fit properly. The sleeves were too short, and the pant legs too long. Whenever the neighbors saw me, they'd whisper behind my back. "Look at the Parkers' oldest girl. She dresses like a beggar." "Meanwhile, the younger one's decked out in designer clothes." I didn't care. What I cared about was that I could finally sneak off to the library. Every time I came back from buying groceries, I'd stop by the library's back entrance for ten minutes. I read books, discarded newspapers people had thrown away, and magazines with missing pages. That's how I learned the ocean was blue, that penguins lived in Antarctica, and that there was something in this world called unconditional love. Even though I'd never known it myself. One day, I found a fountain pen in the library. It had a black barrel and a gold nib. The ink flowed effortlessly across the page. I hid it inside my sock. It was the first thing I'd ever owned that truly belonged to me. That night, I hid in the basement and wrote on the back of a discarded sheet of paper. I wrote "Hannah." Then "Freedom." Then "I want to live." The pen glided across the page as I lost myself in the words. Suddenly, the basement door flew open with a loud bang. Abigail stood in the doorway, her face twisted with fury. "Where's my fountain pen?!" she screamed. I flinched. The pen slipped from my hand and hit the floor. She rushed over, snatched it up, and looked at the ink stains covering the barrel. "You stole it!" She grabbed a broom from the corner and started beating me without mercy. The broomstick struck my body, each blow burning with pain. "I didn't steal it! I found it!" I cried, shielding my head with my arms. "You found it? What in this house could possibly belong to you?" She hit me even harder. "Someone like you doesn't deserve a pen. You should be writing with sticks!" The shouting brought my parents downstairs. Dad stopped in the doorway, watching us with icy indifference. "What's going on?" "She stole my fountain pen!" Abigail sobbed. "It's my Montblanc! I need it for my exams!" Dad walked over and drove his foot into my stomach. I flew backward like a rag doll and slammed into the corner of the wall. "Couldn't keep your hands to yourself?" he asked. "I didn't steal it..." "Still lying?" He bent down, picked up the pen, and examined it. "It's damaged," he said. Then he grabbed my hand and pinned my fingers against the doorframe. "Hold your hand out." I knew exactly what he was about to do. I struggled with everything I had, trying to pull away, but he was far too strong. Crack! The broomstick came down hard across the back of my hand. My skin split open. The pain was so overwhelming that I couldn't even scream. Tears blurred my vision. "Remember this. Every last thing in this house belongs to Abby." Dad's voice came from above me. "Even the air you breathe is something we allow you to have." That night, the back of my hand swelled until it looked like a dinner roll. The pain kept me awake. I sat alone in the darkness, staring at the moonlight spilling through the window. The pale light fell across my hand, illuminating the purplish-red welt. I wondered if, by cutting this hand off, I wouldn't owe them anymore. But I didn't have a knife. All I had was the damaged fountain pen. I picked it up, held the nib between my lips, and wrote across the back of my hand. "Hate." Over and over, I wrote "hate". The ink seeped into the open wound, stinging with every letter. I didn't care. It was the only way I knew how to fight back. Chapter 4 I was fifteen. Abigail started dating. Ethan Sinclair was the son of a member of Blackwood Academy's board of directors. His family was wealthy. Every day, she put on makeup and changed outfits several times. Mom became her personal stylist, spending all day fussing over her. I became her errand girl. I had to buy her expensive smoothies, deliver her love letters, and keep watch from a distance whenever she went on dates. If Ethan tried to hold her hand, I was supposed to make enough noise to interrupt them, like an idiot. One day, Abigail was on a date at the park. I hid behind a row of bushes. By the time it was over, my legs were covered in mosquito bites. Suddenly, Abigail and Ethan started arguing. He said she was too high-maintenance and wanted to break up. Abigail burst into tears. Then she turned toward me, her eyes filled with malice. "This is all your fault!" She rushed over and slapped me across the face. "How was he supposed to pay attention to me with you standing here watching?" I covered my face. Before I could react, she grabbed my hair and slammed me against a tree. Bang! My back hit the rough bark, and the pain made my vision go black. "My fault?" I shouted. "You couldn't keep him yourself!" Abigail froze. No one had ever dared speak to her like that before. Her eyes turned red. She pulled a pair of scissors from her purse and started cutting my hair. "That's what you get for talking back! Take that!" Clumps of hair fell to the ground, mixing with dirt and leaves. I didn't move, letting her cut it. When she was finished, she threw the scissors to the ground and ran away crying. Ethan stood there, too stunned to know what to do. I picked up the scissors and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a madwoman. My hair was uneven. It looked like a dog had chewed on it. I smiled, then slipped the scissors into my sleeve. When I got home, Mom looked at me and frowned. "You look awful," she said. "Don't go outside tomorrow. You're embarrassing." Dad asked Abigail what had happened. She complained that I'd ruined her date. Without another word, Dad locked me in the storage room, where they kept all the junk. The room had only a tiny window, no bigger than the palm of my hand, nearly seven feet off the ground. He kept me locked inside for three days. All I had to eat was spoiled leftovers and moldy bread. On the fourth day, I needed to use the bathroom. I shouted until my voice gave out, but no one answered. In the end, I had no choice but to relieve myself in the corner. The smell spread through the entire room. It made me sick to my stomach. At that moment, I suddenly understood. I didn't hate Abigail because she was a monster they had raised. She had no heart, because they had dug it out, preserved it like a specimen, and put it on display. The ones I hated were my parents. They had turned two people into monsters. One was a monster that devoured people, and the other was a monster that was devoured In the darkness, I found the scissors hidden inside my sleeve. I gripped them tightly until my palm was slick with sweat. I wanted to run out there and stab them to death. Instead, I only cut my own finger. Drops of blood fell onto the floor like blooming red roses. I had to live. Only if I stayed alive could I watch them go to hell.