Fiancé to Fiend, Sister to Slayer

Locked away in a mental health center, my only window to the outside was a rickety tablet. I watched, hopeful, as my sister Chloe walked down the aisle, her smile a burst of sunlight on her wedding day.

But the joyful scene shattered in an instant. A woman, face grotesquely scarred, shrieked venomous accusations about Chloe ruining her life. Without a word of defense, her fiancé Mark, twisted with rage, slapped Chloe across the face, declared her "poison," and had her violently dragged away to a sinister "farm" for "purification." The livestream cut out, leaving me in stunned silence.

Then came Mom's call, her voice a thin, broken wire: Chloe was gone. Dead. An "accident" at that farm, they said, left without medical help. When Mom tried to get answers, Mark's men beat her and threw her out. My sister, the kindest soul, was brutally taken from us.

Chloe, gone due to such callous cruelty and calculated neglect? The unbearable injustice, the suffocating grief, sparked a suppressed fury I'd carried for years. They called me dangerous, diagnosed me with an explosive disorder, and for years, I'd fought it. But now, that dark fire felt like the only truth.

No longer fighting my demons, I unleashed them. In a cold, calculated move, I forced my way out of that institution, leaving chaos in my wake. The cool Oregon air hit my face, carrying the scent of impending rain and undeniable revenge. My sister deserved justice, and I was going to deliver it, no matter the cost.

The cheap tablet flickered in the dayroom of the Oregon State Mental Health Center.

I watched Chloe, my sister, on the grainy livestream of her simple backyard wedding.

Her smile was a burst of sunlight, even through the poor connection.

Suddenly, a woman, face contorted in a grotesque mask of chemical burns, stumbled into the frame.

She lunged towards Chloe, clawing at the air.

"You did this to me, Chloe!" she shrieked, her voice a raw wound. "You stole Mark, and then you melted my face!"

Chloe stood frozen, her white dress a stark contrast to the intruder's ravaged appearance.

Mark, Chloe's fiancé, a young entrepreneur with a jaw always tight, exploded.

He didn't ask. He didn't wait.

His hand cracked across Chloe's face.

A gasp rippled through the small gathering in the livestream.

"You vicious bitch!" Mark spat, his handsome features twisted. "I knew you were trouble. You're poison."

Chloe cradled her cheek, tears welling. "Mark, I don't know her! I didn't do anything!"

"Shut up!" He grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. "This wedding is over. You're going somewhere to get your head straight, to learn some goddamn decency."

He shoved her towards two burly men I didn't recognize. His private security, probably.

"Jessica recommended a place," Mark snarled, more to himself than to Chloe. "A farm. They'll purify you."

The livestream cut out.

My world went silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above.

Chloe.

My Chloe.

My hand tightened on the tablet, the plastic creaking.

Days bled into a gray fog.

Then, Mom's call.

Her voice was a thin, broken wire.

"Emily... Chloe... she's gone."

Gone?

"The farm... they said she... she had an accident." Mom's words were choked with sobs. "She was hurt badly. They didn't call a doctor in time."

My breath hitched.

"I went to the police, Emily. I tried to see Mark. His men... they threw me out. They hit me."

The line went dead in my ear.

Chloe, dead.

A cold, black fire ignited in my chest.

During the afternoon therapy session, a new, young aide, barely out of college, fumbled with the medication cart.

His name tag read 'Kevin.' He was careless, always looking at his phone.

I moved.

My arm snaked around Kevin's throat, pulling him tight against me. The metal cart clattered, pills scattering like confetti.

He gasped, clawing at my arm.

"Keys," I whispered, my voice flat. "And the code for the main door."

His eyes bulged. He choked out the numbers.

I pressed harder. "Now the release form. Sign it. Temporary discharge. Doctor's approval."

He was shaking, but he scribbled a signature on a blank form I'd palmed from the unattended nurse's station earlier.

The supervising physician, Dr. Albright, rushed over, alerted by the commotion.

His face was pale.

"Emily, what are you doing?"

I held Kevin tighter. His face was turning purple.

"Sign it, Doctor," I said, my voice a low growl. "Or he stops breathing."

Dr. Albright's hand trembled as he snatched the form and scrawled his name.

I released Kevin. He crumpled to the floor, gasping.

I walked out of the Oregon State Mental Health Center, the signed paper clutched in my hand.

The cool Oregon air hit my face.

It smelled like rain and revenge.

The small urn felt cold in my hands.

Chloe's ashes.

Our small living room was dim. Mom had set up a little table with Chloe's high school graduation photo. She was beaming, a cap perched jauntily on her bright hair.

I placed the urn beside it.

The front door burst open, slamming against the wall.

Mark strode in, Jessica clinging to his arm like a designer leech. Her face was a mask of smug concern.

"Well, well," Jessica drawled, her eyes flicking to the urn. "If it isn't the dearly departed's sister. And what's this? Did Chloe finally succeed in faking her own death for sympathy?"

Mark's gaze landed on the urn, a flicker of something – confusion? – in his eyes.

Then he saw me. Really saw me.

His expression hardened into contempt. "Emily. I should have known. Your family will stoop to anything, won't you? What is this, some sick play to get money?"

Jessica giggled, a high, sharp sound. "Oh, Mark, don't be fooled. She probably scooped up some dirt from the yard. Trying to guilt trip you into another lavish funeral, perhaps?"

Her hand, nails painted a blood red, reached for the urn.

I moved, just a fraction, and her hand swiped empty air. She stumbled, catching herself on Mark's arm.

"Emily!" Mark's voice was a whip crack. "Have you learned nothing? You dare to act out, even now?"

Mom stepped in front of me, her small frame trembling but resolute. "Get out!" she screamed, her voice raw. "Get out of my house! You killed my daughter!"

Mark's face contorted with rage. "Killed her? She was a menace! That farm was supposed to help her! If she couldn't handle a little discipline, that's on her!"

He grabbed my wrist. "You're coming with me. You're clearly as unhinged as she was. A few weeks at the farm will teach you some respect. Maybe you'll learn what happens to liars and manipulators."

My eyes were empty. I didn't resist.

"Fine," I said.

Mark blinked, surprised by my quick agreement.

I gently took the urn from the table, cradling it. I looked at Chloe's smiling face in the photo.

She always shared her candy with me, the cheap kind Mom bought from the convenience store where she worked.

*"Is it good, Em?" she'd whisper, her eyes sparkling.*

*I'd nod, the sweetness a small, bright spot in my gray world.*

Twelve years old.

A group of older boys from the high school cornered Chloe on her way home from middle school. The sheriff's son was among them.

I'd been following, silent as always.

Chloe ran home, sobbing, her clothes torn. She never saw me emerge from the alley, my hands and shirt stained a sticky, dark red.

That night, the sheriff's house burned down. They found the family inside.

The papers called it a tragic accident. Faulty wiring.

The police found me by the river, washing my hands, a small, satisfied smile on my face.

They said I was a danger. Intermittent Explosive Disorder. PTSD from a childhood I never spoke of.

They locked me away.

Chloe visited every week.

*"The cherry blossoms are out, Em," she'd say, her breath fogging the thick visiting room glass. "So pretty."*

Her last visit.

*"I'm getting married, Em! Mark is wonderful. We'll have a small thing in the backyard. Mom will stream it for you!"*

Now, her ashes were in my hands.

Mom gripped my arm. "Emily... no." Her eyes pleaded.

I patted her hand.

She let out a shuddering sigh and stepped back. "Go then."

I nodded once and walked out with Mark, Jessica smirking beside him.