No Love Left for Her

The first gunshot was a flat, ugly pop.

It wasn't like the movies. It just sounded wrong.

I looked up from my SAT prep book, but my sister Sarah didn't even flinch.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I knew this sound.

I knew this exact moment.

In my last life, this was when I grabbed Sarah, screaming for her to run.

The second shot came, closer.

I dragged her under the table, promising to protect her.

The shooter found us anyway.

I felt the searing pain in my shoulder.

But my focus was on Sarah, bleeding from a bullet to her abdomen.

I called my mother, Dr. Olivia Vance, the world-renowned neurosurgeon.

"Liam? What is it? I' m busy," her voice was clipped.

"Mom, it' s Sarah! She' s been shot! At the school library, there' s a shooter!" I yelled.

"Don' t be ridiculous, Liam. Stop trying to get attention with these sick jokes. I' m on my way to the beach with Ethan."

"It' s not a joke! Mom, please! She' s bleeding, she needs a doctor, she needs you!"

But the line went dead. She had hung up on me.

Sarah died in my arms, waiting for an ambulance that came too late.

My family never forgave me.

They looked through me, not at me.

Olivia painted me as the monster.

"He was jealous of her," she' d said. "He probably distracted her, kept her from hiding properly."

They believed her.

They always believed her.

They ostracized me, the son who failed to save the perfect daughter.

A few weeks later, my mother found me in the kitchen.

Her eyes were hollow, dead.

She held a syringe.

"It should have been you," she whispered. "It' s all your fault."

She plunged the needle into my neck.

The world went dark.

And then I woke up.

I was back in the library, the SAT book open to the same page.

Sarah was across from me, alive.

The date on my phone confirmed it.

It was the same day.

Then came the pop. The first gunshot.

This time, I looked at Sarah.

I saw the daughter our parents adored.

The girl who got everything while I got scraps.

The centerpiece of the family that cast me out and left me to die.

The memory of my mother' s dead eyes, the cold prick of the needle, flooded my senses.

The choice was not a choice at all. It was survival.

A second shot, closer this time.

Sarah finally looked up, eyes wide. "Liam? What was that?"

I didn' t answer.

I didn't grab her hand.

I didn't scream for her to hide.

I stood, my chair scraping loudly.

I turned my back on her.

And I ran.

I pushed through the heavy library doors just as the first real screams echoed down the hall.

I didn' t look back.

This time, I would not be the hero.

This time, I would save myself.

The first gunshot was a flat, ugly pop that didn't sound real. It was nothing like the movies. It just sounded wrong.

My head snapped up from the SAT prep book. Across the wide library table, my sister Sarah didn' t even flinch, her pencil still scratching across a practice test.

My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. A cold sweat broke out across my back. I knew this sound. I knew this exact moment. It was a memory burned into my soul, a nightmare I was forced to relive.

In my last life, this was the moment I grabbed Sarah' s arm. I screamed at her to run, to hide. She had looked at me, annoyed, telling me to stop being dramatic. When the second shot came, closer this time, I dragged her under the table. We huddled there, trembling, as the screams started outside the library doors. I held her hand, promising I would get her out, that I would protect her.

The shooter had found us anyway.

I remembered the searing pain in my own shoulder, but my focus was on Sarah. The bullet had hit her in the abdomen. There was so much blood.

I had pulled out my phone, my fingers numb and clumsy, and called my mother, Dr. Olivia Vance. The world-renowned neurosurgeon.

"Liam? What is it? I' m busy," her voice was clipped, impatient.

"Mom, it' s Sarah! She' s been shot! At the school library, there' s a shooter!" I yelled into the phone, my voice cracking with panic.

"Don' t be ridiculous, Liam. Stop trying to get attention with these sick jokes. I' m on my way to the beach with Ethan. He' s been looking forward to this all week."

"It' s not a joke! Mom, please! She' s bleeding, she needs a doctor, she needs you!"

But the line went dead. She had hung up on me.

Sarah died in my arms waiting for an ambulance that came too late. They said if a surgeon had been there, if the bleeding had been stopped sooner, she might have lived.

My family never forgave me. At her funeral, they didn' t look at me. They looked through me. My father, David, his face a mask of grief. My grandparents, their eyes full of accusation. They all listened to Olivia as she painted me as the monster.

"He was jealous of her," she' d said, her voice dripping with a performer' s sorrow. "He was always trying to ruin things for her. He probably distracted her, kept her from hiding properly."

They believed her. They always believed her. They ostracized me, the son who failed to save the perfect daughter.

The end came a few weeks later. My mother found me in the kitchen. Her eyes were hollow, dead. She held a syringe in her hand.

"It should have been you," she whispered, her voice devoid of all emotion. "It' s all your fault. She' s gone because of you."

I was too broken to fight back. She plunged the needle into my neck. The world went dark.

And then I woke up.

I was back in the library. The SAT book was open to the same page. Across from me, Sarah was still alive, her brow furrowed in concentration. The date on my phone confirmed it. It was the same day.

Then came the pop. The first gunshot.

This time, I looked at Sarah. I saw her perfect face, the daughter our parents adored. I saw the girl who got everything while I got the scraps. I saw the centerpiece of the family that had cast me out and left me to die.

The memory of my mother' s dead eyes, the cold prick of the needle, flooded my senses. The choice was not a choice at all. It was survival.

A second shot, closer this time.

Sarah finally looked up, her eyes wide with confusion.

"Liam? What was that?"

I didn' t answer. I didn't grab her hand. I didn't scream for her to hide.

I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. I turned my back on her.

And I ran.

I pushed through the heavy library doors just as the first real screams echoed down the hall. I didn't look back. I just ran, away from the school, away from Sarah, away from the life that had already destroyed me once. This time, I would not be the hero. This time, I would save myself.

My lungs burned as I ran, each gasp of air feeling like swallowing fire. I didn' t stop until the school was a distant shape behind me and the sounds of sirens were a faint wail on the wind. I ducked into an alleyway, my back sliding down the rough brick wall until I was sitting on the grimy pavement.

My body wouldn't stop shaking. It was a deep, uncontrollable tremor that started in my bones. I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to hold myself together, but the phantom pain in my shoulder and the memory of cold liquid spreading through my veins were too real.

This wasn' t a second chance at being a better son or brother. It was a second chance to live.

My family wasn' t a haven. It was a minefield, and at its center was Ethan Hayes.

My mother, Olivia, had been a resident at the hospital where Ethan' s parents were brought in after a horrific car crash. They were old friends of hers, she' d said. They died on the operating table, and Olivia, consumed by a sense of guilt and duty, adopted their only son, Ethan.

He was two years old at the time. I was four, and Sarah was six.

From the moment he entered our home, the dynamic shifted. Ethan was fragile, the poor orphan who needed protection. Sarah was the brilliant, shining daughter. And I was... just Liam. The afterthought.

Ethan became the sun around which my mother orbited. His every wish was her command. His slightest whimper sent her rushing to his side. He could do no wrong. If his toy broke, it was because I had looked at it the wrong way. If he failed a test, it was because I had been too loud while he was studying.

My father, David, just went along with it. He was a passive man who avoided conflict, and arguing with Olivia was a battle he never wanted to fight. So he simply accepted her narrative: Ethan was precious, and Liam was a problem.

My grandparents, both paternal and maternal, followed suit. They saw a grieving woman trying to do right by her dead friends' son, and they doted on Ethan, showering him with the affection they withheld from me.

I tried to tell them. I tried to tell them about the things Ethan did when they weren' t looking. The way he would pinch me until I bruised, then run to our mother crying that I had hit him. The time he "accidentally" broke my school project I had spent a month on, the one I needed to pass my class.

Olivia' s response was always the same.

"Liam, stop trying to blame Ethan for your own shortcomings. He' s been through enough. You should be ashamed of yourself for being so cruel to him."

After a while, I just stopped trying. It was pointless. In their eyes, I was the villain, and Ethan was the perpetual victim they needed to champion.

Huddled in the alley, the tremors finally started to subside, replaced by an icy calm. I had spent my first life desperately trying to earn their love, to prove I was worthy. I had tried to save Sarah, believing that if I could just do that one thing right, they would finally see me.

And what did it get me? A needle in the neck from my own mother.

This time, there would be no trying. No desperate pleas for affection. No attempts to prove my worth. I would let the events play out as they were meant to. I would let them see the truth for themselves, without my interference.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were steady now. I scrolled to my mother' s contact. I stared at her name, then closed the phone and slipped it back into my pocket.

Let them call me. Let them blame me. Let them rage.

It didn' t matter anymore. I was just an observer now. A ghost watching a tragedy I had already seen unfold. And this time, I wouldn't be a part of the cast. I was only in the audience.