My Curse, Their Endless Guilt

The fleeting joy I'd felt at Houston's innocent smile vanished, replaced by a cold dread that seeped into my bones. It felt like I'd been drenched in icy water. They saw me as a monster, a murderer, a harbinger of ill luck. My heart ached, a dull, constant throb that mirrored the emptiness in my stomach. My stomach growled, a painful reminder of my hunger. I hadn't eaten properly in days. I walked to the kitchen, my movements slow and heavy. The kitchen, usually bustling, was silent. No one was there. The counters were clean, too clean. Only half a loaf of stale bread remained on the counter, forgotten. And a handful of cashews in an open bag. I grabbed them, tearing off a piece of the dry bread, chewing slowly. It did little to appease the gnawing hunger. As I ate, Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, walked in. She saw me, and her lips thinned. Her eyes rolled, a clear message of disgust. "Oh, Elia," she said, feigning surprise, "did you eat that old bread? It was meant for the garbage. The good breakfast was for the masters, of course." She sniffed, her nose wrinkled. "I could make you something, I suppose, if you insist." I saw the impatience in her eyes, the barely concealed irritation. "No, thank you," I said, my voice barely a whisper. The sharp twist in my stomach intensified. I turned and went back up to the attic. There was no place for me here, not even in the kitchen. Not even the staff saw me as human. I was worse than garbage. The pain radiated through my stomach, making my hands tremble. I fumbled for the small bottle of painkillers I kept hidden. I swallowed two, dry, waiting for the dull ache to subside. Slowly, the sharp edges of the pain softened. I changed into my cleanest dress, a faded blue cotton, and tried to brush my unruly hair. I applied a thin layer of makeup, hoping to hide the shadows under my eyes, to look less like the ghost I felt I was. Then I left the house. I had only one day left. I couldn't just waste it. My first stop was a small funeral parlor. I couldn't order a custom urn, not with only twenty-four hours left. So I picked the prettiest one from the display, a simple ceramic pot with a delicate floral pattern. This would be my home, my final resting place. I walked out of the shop, clutching the urn, acutely aware of the strange glances people threw my way. A young woman, holding an urn, on a weekday afternoon. They must have thought I was mad. I ignored them, my gaze fixed on my next destination. I walked past Fredrick's elite corporate building, a towering monument to his ambition. My phone was still silent. No messages. No missed calls. He hadn't bothered to check his social media. He hadn't even seen my follow request. Two hours had passed since I'd left the message. I didn't want to die out here. I wanted to be home, in the only place I knew, even if it was a cold attic. I turned and walked back, my footsteps echoing the emptiness inside me. The house was silent when I returned. Mrs. Davies was out shopping. I was truly alone. I went to the kitchen and started cooking. My last meal. My last desperate attempt. I cooked everything I knew how to make, dishes I remembered my mother making, dishes I thought my brothers might like. Each splash of oil, each sizzle, was a prayer. A desperate, silent plea for them to come home. To sit with me, just once. Just to say goodbye. The clock above my head was relentless. It had shrunk to 00:00:03:00. Three hours. I sat at the dining table, staring at the feast I had prepared. My hand trembled, a small burn mark on my wrist from where hot oil had splattered. The pain was still there, a vivid pulse against my skin, but it was overshadowed by a strange, frantic excitement. I knew it was abnormal, this surge of hope, but I couldn't help it. My heart pounded in my chest. Two hours. I picked up the phone, my fingers fumbling with the keys. I scrolled to Fredrick's number. My eldest brother. The one who had pulled me out of the tool shed all those years ago. The one who had, in his own cold way, saved me. I dialed. The line rang once, twice, then a click. "Fredrick?" I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. "Please, just come home. Celebrate with me. Please. I... I'm going to die tonight." The silence on the other end was a heavy shroud, far more suffocating than the empty grave I had prepared for myself. My knuckles were white as I gripped the phone, the burn on my hand throbbing in sync with my racing heart. Time seemed to stretch, suspended between my desperate plea and his unspoken judgment. I looked at the table, laden with food. Food I had cooked with the last vestiges of my strength. Steam rose from the dishes, evaporating into the vast, empty dining room. A dying girl, a table full of food, and an empty house. This house had never really been a home. I imagined Fredrick, his brow furrowed in annoyance. He probably thought I was manipulative, seeking attention. But maybe, just maybe, the word "die" would pierce through his indifference, if only for a second. A spark of hope ignited in my chest, a desperate, flickering flame. Come home, Fredrick. Please. Just so I can leave this world with a memory not tainted by hatred. Just so I can see a face that isn't filled with contempt when I close my eyes for the last time. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked, each second a hammer blow, chipping away at my fragile composure. One hour. "Fredrick?" I whispered again, my voice thin, broken by eighteen years of neglect. "Please. Don't let me die alone." My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for release.