I'm in Survival Hell, You're in Party Heaven

Everyone set down their glasses and cutlery and turned their chairs toward the screen. Dad tapped a few buttons on his tablet, and the image flickered before sharpening into focus.

"Highlights From the Past 72 Hours." The title was bold and red.

On screen, I was on my knees, tongue pressed against the joint of a water pipe, lapping up the droplets that seeped through. The water tasted of rust and rot. But I drank greedily, desperately. I just wanted to stay alive.

A low murmur of appreciation rippled across the lawn.

"Oh wow, look at that survival instinct. It's almost perfect."

A woman with glasses pushed her frames up her nose, eyes glued to the screen. "The way she's positioned, she's completely let go of any sense of dignity. It's just pure animal instinct."

Dad stood beside the screen like a museum curator, laser pointer in hand. The red dot landed on my dirty face.

"Everyone, pay close attention to her eyes." He traced a small circle around my eye sockets with the laser.

"See how her pupils are blown wide? There's nothing in her expression except thirst. That's raw, unfiltered survival instinct. We've been living in civilization for so long, most of us have forgotten what that even looks like."

Raw survival instinct? I was crouched in that corner, drinking filthy water, thinking about nothing except whether drinking a little less might mean a little more for Mom and Dad. Love and sacrifice were all I knew.

And to them, that was animal instinct?

The footage cut to another clip, from the last time I got sick. I lay curled up in my tattered blankets, fever burning so hot my face was flushed a violent red.

I was muttering nonsense, whimpering, "Mom, it hurts. Mom, please."

The guests let out a collective sigh.

"Oh goodness, that looks awful. Is she actually going to be okay?" A woman in a floral dress wrinkled her nose, holding a cookie.

Mom lounged in her chair, swirling her wine glass with a relaxed smile. "Don't worry. I know exactly what I'm doing."

Her voice was breezy, almost casual, like she was talking about trimming a houseplant. "I watched the whole thing. The fever was just her immune system rebuilding itself.

"Her body can only break through its limits if it's been pushed right up against death. Kids these days are so used to being pampered that they can't handle a little fever. How are they supposed to handle something like this when the time comes?"

I listened to Mom describe my suffering like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and my chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

I had thought they were out there risking their lives, searching for medicine, dodging danger just to keep me safe. So, I bit down on my blanket and swallowed every cry, terrified of worrying them.

But she had been watching the whole time, watching me writhe like a dying animal, right there on that screen. They had recorded every second of it, turned my worst moments into something to show off at dinner parties.

The bald man at the table raised his glass with an approving nod. "Mrs. Sands, you really are something. That kind of nerve is not something the rest of us can pull off."

Dad chuckled and switched to the next slide. A red line graph filled the screen, labeled "Supply Drop Records."

"Here's the thing, though. That can of food wasn't actually the last one." He pointed to a data point on the graph, a hint of pride creeping into his tone.

"There was still one more tin of spam left. I told her it was the last one in the world. That without it, all three of us would starve.

"That was the 'desperation threshold' test. I wanted to see what she would choose. Eat her parents' share to survive, or go without and sacrifice herself."

The guests nodded along, eyes wide with understanding. Someone started clapping. The others joined in, a smattering of applause drifting across the lawn.

"Now that is a real experiment into human nature," the bald man called out, lifting his glass high.

Every glass clinked together. The sound rang out, sharp and bright, cutting through the warm evening air. Everything about this evening, the food, the wine, the laughter, was built on top of me.

Mom took a sip of her wine, a small crease forming between her brows. "That said, the data has been a little flat the past few days. She just stays curled up in the same corner, not moving. I think she's adapted to this level of starvation. Her body's gone into some kind of conservation mode."

She sounded mildly annoyed. "This kid adapts too well. Sometimes that's actually a problem."

It almost sounded like surviving was inconveniencing her.

Dad set down his glass and straightened his collar. A flicker of excitement crossed his face.

"Well then. No point waiting." He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

"Let's go ahead and run the 'zombie siege' simulation. Once we get past that last wall in her head, we can finish the whole thing ahead of schedule."

He rubbed his hands together, energized, and strode toward the massive control panel. "The real show is about to start, folks. Keep your eyes on the big screen."

His fingers hovered over a red button. I rushed toward him, tried to grab his arm, but my hands passed right through him like smoke.

"Stop! Don't press it! I'm already dead! Please stop torturing what's left of me!"

But no one could hear my voice. No one could see my tears.

Dad's finger came down.