Her Cold Mother, His Bloody Betrayal

The first gunshot in the library deafened me to everything but my brother Ethan' s jolt and the dark red staining his white t-shirt. He looked at me, mouth open, no sound. He slumped.

My body moved before my brain could. I turned and ran. I didn' t help him, didn' t scream his name. I just ran, leaving him there. Because I had done this before.

In my last life, I' d called our neurosurgeon mother, Olivia. "Mom, Ethan's been shot!" I' d sobbed. Her reply, cold: "Stop being so dramatic, Chloe. I' m busy getting my nails done with Ashley." Ashley, our adopted sister, was her perfect princess. Ethan and I were afterthoughts.

She hung up. Ethan bled out waiting for a mother who thought he was a lie. At the hospital, she arrived, nails perfectly pink. When he was pronounced dead, her world shattered. She lunged at me, screaming. "You did this! You just watched him die! You were jealous!" She shoved me down the hospital staircase. My head hit the marble floor. I died there, just like Ethan.

But then I was back, in the library, the nightmare starting again. This time, I knew. Trying to save Ethan would only lead to my own death, blamed, hated, destroyed by a family that was never truly mine. My parents were incapable of love for their biological children, consumed by Ashley.

So, for the first time, I chose me. I ran, leaving them and that broken life behind. Let them live with their choices. I wouldn't be their scapegoat. This time, I' d be a spectator.

But when they called, crying about Ethan, I knew what I had to do. Not for them, but to reveal their monstrous truth. Heading to the hospital, I wasn't a grieving sister. I was an executioner, ready to make sure everyone saw the final act.

The first gunshot was a loud crack that split the air in the library.

My younger brother, Ethan, was sitting across from me, his head buried in an SAT prep book. He looked up, his eyes wide with confusion. Another crack echoed, closer this time, followed by screams.

People started running. Chairs scraped violently against the floor. Books tumbled from shelves.

I saw the man in the doorway. He was wearing a black ski mask and holding a handgun. He raised it.

He aimed it at our table.

I saw the small flash from the barrel. I saw Ethan jolt in his seat. A dark red stain blossomed on the front of his white t-shirt, right over his chest. He looked down at it, then back at me, his mouth opening but no sound coming out.

He slumped forward, his head hitting the table with a dull thud.

The world went silent. All I could see was the bright, spreading red. All I could hear was a buzzing in my ears.

My body moved before my brain could think. I scrambled out of my chair, knocking it over. I didn't run towards Ethan. I didn't scream his name.

I turned and ran away.

I pushed through the panicking crowd, my only thought to get out. Get away. I ran without looking back, my legs pumping, my lungs burning.

Because I had done this before.

In my last life, I had screamed.

I had dropped to my knees beside Ethan, my hands hovering over the wound, not knowing what to do. I had pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling so hard I could barely dial.

I called our mother, Dr. Olivia Miller. A celebrated neurosurgeon.

"Mom," I had sobbed into the phone. "Ethan's been shot. At the library. Please, you have to come."

There was a pause on the other end. Then her voice, cold and annoyed.

"Chloe, what nonsense are you talking about now? I'm busy. Ashley and I are about to get our nails done."

"It's not nonsense!" I shrieked, desperation clawing at my throat. "He's bleeding! Mom, please!"

"Stop being so dramatic, Chloe," she snapped. "I know you're jealous of the time I spend with Ashley, but making up a story like this is a new low, even for you. Don't call me again with this foolishness."

She hung up.

I called my father. I called my grandparents. They believed me, but by the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late. Ethan died from blood loss. He died waiting for a mother who thought he was a lie.

At the hospital, my family gathered. My mother finally arrived, her nails a perfect, glossy pink. When the doctor announced Ethan's death, her world shattered. And then she turned on me.

"You!" she screamed, her face twisted with grief and rage. "You did this! You just watched him die! You were jealous, you always were!"

My father tried to hold her back. My grandparents looked at me with confusion and suspicion. In their grief, her words were easier to believe than the horrifying truth of her own negligence.

She broke free from my father's grasp and lunged at me. We were at the top of a wide staircase in the hospital lobby. Her hands shoved against my chest, hard.

I lost my balance.

The world tilted, and I was falling backward. My head hit the marble floor with a sickening crack. A sharp, searing pain shot through my skull. Warm liquid, thick and sticky, began to pool around my head. It was the same red as the stain on Ethan's shirt.

My mother stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at me, her eyes filled with nothing but hate.

I died on that cold marble floor, bleeding out just like my brother. My last thought was of the unfairness of it all.

So this time, when I was reborn, back in the library at the exact moment the nightmare began again, I made a different choice.

The sight of Ethan's blood was just as shocking. The buzzing in my ears was just as loud.

But this time, I knew. I knew that trying to save him would only lead to my own death. It would lead to my family blaming me, hating me, destroying me.

They weren't my family. Not really. A family wouldn't let one child die because of their obsession with another. A mother wouldn't kill her own daughter out of misplaced rage.

This time, I chose to save myself.

I didn't stop running until the sounds of the library were far behind me. I didn't look back. I just ran, leaving Ethan, my mother, my father, and that whole broken life behind me. Let them see for themselves. Let them live with the consequences of their own choices. This time, I wouldn't be their scapegoat.

This time, I would just be a spectator.

I ran until I reached a small park a few miles away from the school. I collapsed onto a bench, my whole body trembling. The adrenaline started to fade, replaced by a deep, hollow coldness. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking, but it was no use.

My mind was a chaotic storm of images from two lifetimes. Ethan's confused eyes. The red stain. My mother's furious face. The hard impact of the marble floor.

It was all real. It had all happened. And it was all happening again.

But this time, I wasn't in it. I was here, on a park bench, safe.

And I felt a bitter, ugly relief.

In the Miller family, I was an afterthought. Ethan was the quiet, diligent son. And then there was Ashley.

Ashley was my parents' adopted daughter. They took her in when she was ten, after her parents supposedly died in a car crash. From the moment she stepped into our house, she became the center of their universe. Especially our mother's.

Dr. Olivia Miller, the brilliant surgeon who could mend the most complex parts of the human brain, was a completely different person at home. For Ashley, she was a doting, endlessly patient mother. Ashley was her little princess. She got designer clothes, expensive vacations, a brand-new car the day she turned sixteen.

For Ethan and me, her biological children, she had only criticism and neglect. Our good grades were never good enough. Our needs were always an inconvenience. We were the extra, annoying pieces of furniture in the house Ashley owned.

My father, Robert Miller, was quieter. He saw the blatant favoritism, but he rarely challenged my mother. He loved us, I think, in his own passive way, but he was tired. It was easier to let Olivia have her way than to fight the constant battles. So he let it happen. He watched as we became ghosts in our own home.

I remembered my sixteenth birthday. I had asked for a specific art set, something I had saved up half the money for. My mother had scoffed.

"What a waste of money, Chloe. You should be focusing on your studies, not doodling."

That same week, Ashley mentioned wanting a new handbag she saw in a magazine. The next day, the five-hundred-dollar bag was sitting on her bed.

I had tried so hard to win their affection. I got straight A's. I won academic awards. I helped around the house. Nothing worked. In their eyes, I was just the jealous, difficult older sister to perfect, sweet Ashley.

Any complaint I made about Ashley was twisted into an attack.

"Chloe, you need to be more understanding. Ashley has been through so much trauma," my mother would say, her voice sharp with disappointment.

And Ashley played her part perfectly. She was always sweet, always innocent, always the victim. But I saw the small, triumphant smirks she shot me when our parents weren't looking. I knew she was manipulating them, but no one would ever believe me.

In my last life, I had fought against it until my last breath. I had tried to expose Ashley's lies, tried to make my mother see me, see Ethan. It got me nothing but a shove down the stairs.

This time, I was done. I wouldn't fight for the love of people who were incapable of giving it. I wouldn't waste my breath on a family that was already broken beyond repair.

Let them have their perfect little world with their perfect little Ashley. I wanted no part of it.

My phone started ringing in my pocket, jolting me back to the present. The screen lit up with a picture of my father.

I stared at it, my heart pounding. I knew what this call was about.

I let it ring, the sound cutting through the quiet park. It stopped, then started again. And again.

On the fifth call, I finally pressed the green button, my hand still shaking.

"Chloe? Chloe, where are you? Are you okay?" My father's voice was tight with panic.

"I'm fine," I said. My own voice sounded strange, flat and distant.

"There was a shooting at the school library," he rushed on, his words tumbling over each other. "Your brother... Chloe, Ethan was shot. We're at St. Mary's Hospital. You need to come right now."

The words were the same. The hospital was the same. The tragedy was the same.

"Okay," I said, the single word feeling heavy in my mouth. "I'll be there."

I hung up the phone and stood up. My legs felt weak, but I forced them to move. I started walking towards the hospital. Not as a grieving sister. Not as a part of their family.

But as someone who was about to watch a play she had already seen the ending to. And this time, I would make sure everyone saw the final act.