Live Broadcast, Dead Girl's Revenge

Two years have passed since my death.

Now, my old roommate, Jessica, stands on a grand stage, accepting the "Annual Community Contributor" award.

Millions across the nation are watching her flawless smile, her humble nod-a true paragon of virtue.

Then, a catastrophic glitch.

My old laptop's desktop, with a candid photo of my stepbrother Michael, flickers onto the massive screen behind her.

Michael, in the front row, snarls loud enough for every microphone to catch it, "What is that dead girl's junk doing here? So damn disrespectful!"

The live chat goes wild, demanding this "trash" be removed, calling me sick, a psycho, forever "bad news."

The host, David, clicks open my "Sarah's Private Posts" folder, exposing my innermost thoughts, my hidden struggles, one excruciating entry at a time.

He reads my very first post-detailing a secret donation I made, the same one Jessica brazenly claimed as the start of her own famous charity work.

Jessica feigns shock and Michael, clutching her hand, reinforces their elaborate deception, branding me as an obsessive, selfish liar who brought all her troubles on herself.

My name, once again, is dragged through the mud, my tragic end blamed on my own "faults," even from beyond the grave.

The cameras fixate on Jessica's carefully staged sorrow, Michael's theatrical disgust, and the world believes them, condemns me.

Didn't my sacrifices, my pain, my desperate attempts to uncover the truth mean anything?

But David, the host, doesn't stop.

He scrolls to the next post, and the one after that.

They have no idea what else I left behind.

Because my carefully documented words, my secret recordings, and undeniable evidence are about to bring their entire empire crashing down, live on national television.

Two years.

Two years I've been... gone.

And Jessica, my old roommate, is on a stage.

She's accepting an award. "Annual Community Contributor." The words feel like ash in a mouth I no longer have.

The live stream captures her practiced smile, her modest nod. A paragon of virtue.

Millions are watching.

Then, a glitch.

The huge screen behind the host, meant to show Jessica's highlight reel, flickers.

My old laptop's desktop appears. My screensaver – a candid shot of Michael, laughing, his guitar across his lap.

A collective gasp from the studio audience.

The host, a seasoned pro, looks flustered. "Uh, we seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties."

My laptop. How?

It was supposed to be locked away, evidence.

Or so I thought.

On the screen, my cursor, somehow active, hovers over an icon: "Sarah's Private Posts."

Michael, my stepbrother, is in the front row. His face, once open and kind, is a mask of disgust.

"What is that dead girl's junk doing here?" he snarls, loud enough for the nearby microphones. "So damn disrespectful."

The live chat explodes.

[WTF? Is that Sarah P's stuff?]

[Michael's right, get that trash off the screen!]

[She was bad news when she was alive, still causing trouble now.]

[Jessica is a saint for even knowing her.]

The host tries to regain control. "Ladies and gentlemen, please..."

But someone, maybe a clumsy tech, or maybe someone with a purpose, clicks open the folder.

A cascade of Instagram post previews fills the screen. My private thoughts, my hidden life.

The host, David, a journalist I vaguely remember, leans closer to the monitor. His expression is unreadable.

He picks up his microphone. "This... this is Sarah Peterson's private Instagram account, it seems."

Jessica's smile is frozen. Her eyes dart towards Michael.

Michael glares at the screen. "She was obsessed. Peterson family took her in, gave her everything. She repaid us by trying to ruin my life."

The chat goes wild again.

[See? Michael knows!]

[Sarah was a psycho stalker, always heard rumors.]

[Jessica is marrying Michael next month, right? This is so messed up.]

[That Sarah probably slept with half the town. No shame.]

David doesn't look at Michael or Jessica. He scrolls.

Dozens of posts. A visual diary of my last few years.

He stops at the first one.

His voice is steady, cutting through the noise.

"The first post is dated June 20th, 2020."

He reads.

"'Michael went to the mountains to photograph the meteor shower again. He got hurt. I'm so worried. But I can't stop him from chasing his dreams. I've decided, starting today, I'll donate all my allowance each month. Secretly, for him. For his safety. May the universe protect him, and may he become the greatest astrophotographer.'"

He pauses. "The attached image is a donation receipt."

David looks up, his gaze sharp. "The date, and the recipient organization for this donation... it's a small community outreach for the homeless downtown. It matches the time and place Ms. Hayes first publicly claimed to begin her charitable work."

He turns to Jessica. "You and Sarah were roommates back then, weren't you? Close friends, I heard?"

Jessica forces a pained smile.

Michael grips her hand, his knuckles white. "It's a coincidence. A sick, twisted coincidence. This is Jessica's night. Stop talking about irrelevant, dead people."

The chat erupts.

[Sarah's just trying to steal Jessica's thunder, even from the grave!]

[Jessica has 50 million followers who've seen her charity work for years. This is BS!]

[What's this host trying to do? Is he trying to say Jessica is a fake?]

Jessica looks down, a picture of pained humility. "My fans know... I don't like conflict. But seeing everyone stand up for me... I can't stay silent."

She signals to someone off-stage.

Two large boxes are carried out. Overflowing with letters.

"These are letters," Jessica says, her voice trembling slightly. "From the kids I've helped over the years. From the families. Sarah might have faked a receipt or two... but these genuine emotions, these connections... they can't be faked."

Michael looks at Jessica, his eyes full of adoration.

Jessica squeezes his hand, then smiles at the camera. "Don't worry, everyone. I won't be brought down by these... shadows. The person who did wrong has already paid the price. I've moved on."

The chat melts.

[OMG, Jessica is so strong!]

[A true angel!]

[Unlike that Sarah, probably rotting for her sins.]

My name, dragged through the mud. Again.

Just when they think it's over, David's finger stops on another post.

He clears his throat.

David's voice cut through the studio hum.

"This next post. January 1st, 2022."

He read from the screen, my words echoing in the large hall.

"'So many letters from the kids at the community center. My closet is overflowing. I don't want Mom and Dad, or Michael, to find them. Jessica said she can help. She said I can use her address for the mail from now on.'"

A murmur went through the audience.

Jessica's smile wavered for a split second.

Michael scoffed. "She was always a liar. Making things up."

David ignored him, scrolling to the next entry.

"January 20th, 2022."

His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, letting my words hang in the air.

"'Went to give blood today. Found out my blood type... it doesn't match Mom, Dad, or Michael. They told me. I'm adopted. They said it doesn't change anything. They'll always love me like their own. My head is spinning.'"

The camera zoomed in on Michael's face.

His jaw was tight. He looked away from the screen.

Jessica placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Darling, you knew this. It's not a secret."

He shook her hand off, irritation flashing in his eyes before he smoothed his expression.

"It's private family business," Michael said, his voice low and dangerous. "Not for public display."

David continued, relentless.

"March 20th, 2022."

"'Ever since I found out about... everything... I can't help but avoid Michael. I don't know why. Just seeing him makes my heart race. I get so nervous. Is this... a crush? Can I... can I like my brother if we're not related by blood?'"

The live stream chat went berserk.

[GROSS! She wanted her brother!]

[Adopted or not, that's sick!]

[Jessica, you poor thing, having to deal with this family.]

[Michael is a saint for putting up with her!]

Suddenly, the image on the big screen wobbled violently.

Michael was on his feet, lunging towards the tech booth, shoving a camera operator aside.

"ENOUGH!" he roared. "We're done! Turn it off!"

He grabbed Jessica's arm. "Let's go."

David stepped forward, calm amidst the chaos. "Mr. Peterson, Ms. Hayes. You both signed an agreement before this interview. You are contractually obligated to see it through."

Security guards moved to block Michael's path.

Jessica pulled her arm free from Michael's grip, her face a mask of annoyance. She smoothed her dress.

Michael stared at David, his chest heaving. After a long, tense moment, he slowly returned to his seat. His back was ramrod straight.

Three minutes later, the broadcast resumed. The air was thick with tension.

David's finger was poised over the next post.

"June 5th, 2022."

His voice was softer now.

"'A sudden virus. The whole city is in lockdown. Mom and Dad are quarantined at their offices. Michael and I... we both have fevers. He insisted I take the last of the fever medicine. I'm so weak. Through the haze, I heard him... I think he said he liked me. He told me to live. I held his hand so tight. It hurts so much. Are we going to die?'"

I remembered that fear. The burning fever, the world shrinking to the space between our hands.

Jessica shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She glanced at Michael, but he was staring straight ahead, his face unreadable.

David continued. "June 6th, 2022."

"'We woke up in the hospital. An ambulance brought us here. Paramedics saved us. Michael's in the bed across the narrow aisle. He just keeps looking at me. I touched my face, asked him what he was staring at. He said... he said he saw the most beautiful stars in the night sky. In my eyes.'"

A tear escaped my own, unseen, of course. He had said that. And for a moment, the world had felt right.

The chat was quieter now. A few confused emojis. Some skeptical comments.

[Is this real?]

[Sounds like a damn soap opera.]

[Michael said that? No way.]

David's voice brought me back.

"June 10th, 2022."

"'Discharged from the hospital. We went home together. I just want to grow up faster. So much faster.'"

"The accompanying photo," David said, his voice gentle, "is of two hands, fingers intertwined."

He paused, letting the image linger on the screen.

The memory was so vivid. His hand in mine, warm and strong. The promise of a future.

A future that never came.

Jessica finally spoke, her voice laced with carefully crafted surprise and sorrow.

She turned to Michael, her eyes wide. "Michael... I... I had no idea. I didn't know you ever... felt that way about Sarah."

She looked towards the camera, a picture of regret. "It's my fault. I should have tried harder to guide her. To help her see reason. Maybe then... maybe then things wouldn't have ended so tragically."

Michael pulled her into his arms, holding her tight.

His voice, when he spoke my name, was cold, filled with a familiar hatred. "It's not your fault, Jess. Sarah was always chasing fantasies. She was vain, selfish. She brought it all on herself."

Brought it all on myself.

He wasn't entirely wrong.

Every choice, every step into the darkness... they were mine.

David continued to scroll. His finger stopped again, three months later in my timeline.

"September 10th, 2022."

"'A woman showed up today. Said she was my birth mother. A cocktail waitress, she called herself. Said she found me on one of those ancestry websites...'"