My Family Fell Apart After I Died Serving as My Sister's Blood Bank

I watched his back as he walked away, my lips parted slightly, whispering, “Goodbye, Ronald.”

Just then, an unfamiliar doctor walked in with my parents.

“This time, it’s no small amount. Has the blood donation consent form been signed?”

My parents glanced at me, then nodded. “It’s signed, doctor. Beatrice’s surgery can start. Please take good care of her.”

Seeing how easily they signed the consent form, I murmured softly, “Mom, Dad, I will always love you.”

It was something I used to say to them when I was little.

I remember a time when things were different. There was a period when my parents, possibly after some business failure, seemed defeated for a long time. Little me would place my soft hands on their faces and gently comfort them, and they’d find the strength to carry on.

“With me here, our Beatrice will get better. Everything will get better.”

I repeated those words now, as I was being wheeled into the operating room, in a bitter, almost pleading tone.

For a brief moment, my mother seemed moved, but my father pulled her back and said with disdain, “We don’t need your love. We gave you life, and as long as you can save your sister, that’ll be the greatest relief for us.”

I forced a smile and thought, “Well, then, I’m giving this life back to you now.”

The cold, sterile smell of disinfectant surrounded me as I entered the operating room, and my vision blurred. I couldn’t tell if it was from tears or something else.

A thick needle pierced into the veins of my arm, already worn from countless pricks, and the blood flowed upward, being drained away.

In the room next door, Beatrice’s abortion was underway.

My blood was leaving me, drop by drop, the warm, bright red liquid filling bag after bag, being carried to the other side of the wall.

Suddenly, a frantic voice rang out, causing a commotion.

“Something’s wrong, the patient is hemorrhaging!”

Beatrice’s surgery wasn’t going well. She was hemorrhaging, and since I was the only one with RH-negative blood, they kept drawing more and more from me.

I lost track of how much blood they took. My face turned as pale as a sheet of paper, until, finally, I heard a relieved cheer from the other operating room.

I knew then—Beatrice was saved.

Everyone rushed off to check on her, completely forgetting about me and leaving me alone in the operating room.

No one noticed the strange beeping of my heart monitor, the rapid fluctuations, and then the flatline.

My world went utterly silent as my soul floated above, watching the scene unfold from above. For the first time, I felt nothing—no pain, no fear, just a cold detachment from the life I had just left behind.

I saw my own lifeless face, drained of all color, lying weak and motionless on the cold surgical table.

Ronald was nearly ecstatic when he heard Beatrice’s surgery was a success, hurrying to her side as she was wheeled out.

And there I was, left behind, forgotten by everyone.

But to my surprise, the first person to burst through the door wasn’t my family. It was Shawn, the very one who had always drawn my blood.

He was drenched in sweat, clearly having rushed to get here. When he saw the pool of blood around the table, he froze, horrified.

His eyes flicked to the flatline on the monitor, panic flooding his face.

Grabbing the defibrillator, he ran toward me.

“Alice, wake up! Don’t you dare die on me!”