Guilt of Burden

At 6:30 a.m., the front door slammed shut. The house fell back into a dead silence.

To save twenty cents on the bus fare, Mother had left half an hour early, walking to the labor market.

At 9:00 a.m., sunlight slipped through the poorly drawn curtains and fell across the corpse's bluish lips.

My phone screen lit up. It was a reminder from the hospital.

[Charles Woodburn, your follow-up appointment is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. today. Please arrive on time.]

No one saw it.

At 10:15 a.m., my mother returned.

She collapsed onto the sofa, staring blankly at the crumpled admission letter Stephanie had thrown away the night before, still lying on the coffee table.

Then she noticed the bowl of porridge sitting outside my door.

"Damn it all," she muttered.

She picked up the bowl meant for me, tilted her head back, and gulped it down in a few swallows.

Her phone rang. She answered.

"Hello? Is this Charles's parent?"

"Yes. What has he done now?" Her hand tightened instinctively around the receiver.

"This is the National High School Physics Competition Committee. We need to verify something. Charles has applied to forfeit his guaranteed admission and has transferred the special award of 5,000 dollars into Stephanie Woodburn's account. Was this authorized by the family?"

Her hand trembled. The phone nearly slipped from her grasp.

"How much did you say?"

"Five thousand dollars. The transfer was executed this morning."

Mother hung up.

Slowly, stiffly, she turned her head and stared at my tightly shut door.

Then she rushed forward and twisted the handle hard.

"Charles! Where did you send that money?" She pounded on the door. "Open up! Explain yourself! Have you lost your mind? That money was for your treatment! How could you give it to Stephanie?"

Her voice sharpened, rising into a shriek. "Are you trying to ruin this family?"

She began slamming her shoulder against the door.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. Stephanie ran in, breathless.

"Mom! Stop!" She rushed forward and grabbed her.

"Why are you back?" Mother shook her off. "Charles transferred the money to your account? Transfer it back now! We need to pay our debts!"

"It's not about the money!" Stephanie raised her phone, her face ashen. "I got the message too, but I just checked Charles's location…"

She pointed to the "Family Anti-Loss Tracking System" on the screen. The red dot that represented me was still in the bedroom. And the heart rate monitor showed: —.

That meant the wristband had been removed… or the heartbeat had stopped.

"Charles hasn't moved since last night." Stephanie's voice trembled.

Mother froze.

Her eyes fell on the ten-dollar bill still lying where Stephanie had pushed it under the door.

A vast, icy fear finally crushed the anxiety over money.

She took a step back and looked at the door.

I looked at her too.

Mother raised her leg and, with all her strength, kicked at the lock.

The door flew open.

The instant it gave way, a stale wave of air rushed out. The smell of a sealed room overnight—mixed with the sour stench of vomit. The smell of death.

Mother froze in the posture of her kick. Stephanie ducked under her arm and rushed inside.

"Charles?" she called tentatively.

I hovered above them, watching it all.

My body lay there on its side, back to the door. The posture looked natural—like I was just sleeping in, as usual.

On the nightstand, the phone vibrated again, its glow lighting a small patch of the room.

Buzz—buzz—

A message from Jamie popped up: [Bro, I listed your game account. Someone's offering fifty dollars. Should I sell it?]