I died on my eighteenth birthday

I died on my eighteenth birthday. After I died, my spirit didn't fade. I was currently floating three feet below the living room ceiling, staring down at my own family. 

Right in the middle of our mahogany dining table sat a massive, three-tier pink cake. Happy 18th Birthday, Lila, the silver icing read. The candles were still burning, the wax melting and dripping onto the frosting. Nobody made a move to blow them out. The air in the room was so thick and heavy it felt like you could cut it with a knife. 

My younger twin sister, Lila, looked terrible. She was slumped against the high-backed dining chair, her skin a sickly, ashen gray. Her lips had absolutely zero color. She looked like she might shatter if someone breathed on her too hard. 

Mom stood right behind her. Diane. She had both arms wrapped tightly around Lila’s shoulders, resting her chin on top of my sister’s head like she was shielding her from a war zone. 

Across the table sat Dad. Mark. He was hunched over, both hands gripping his hair, staring a hole into the hardwood floor. He hadn't moved a muscle in twenty minutes. 

"Mom..." Lila’s voice broke the silence. It was barely a whisper, frail and shaking. She shifted in her seat, her dark eyes darting nervously toward the hallway. "I think... I think I heard something."

Mom’s grip tightened instantly. "Heard what, honey? Your heart rate is up. You need to calm down."

"From the basement." Lila swallowed hard, clutching the edge of the table. "I heard a thump. And... and coughing. Scarlett sounded like she couldn't breathe. Can we just go check on her? Please?"

Mom’s face hardened. "No."

"But Mom, what if she's really sick this time? What if her chest—"

"Lila, stop it." Mom cut her off, her tone sharp and icy. "Scarlett pulls this exact same stunt every single year. She acts out. She fakes a cough. She throws a tantrum just to make it all about her. I am not letting her ruin your eighteenth birthday. We all know what Dr. Evans said. Tonight is critical for you."

Dad finally looked up from the floor. His eyes were red-rimmed, heavy with exhaustion. "Your mother is right, Lila," he said, his voice gruff. "Leave your sister alone. She’s just throwing a fit because she didn't get her way. Nobody is ruining tonight for you. We need to keep your stress levels down."

I floated there, listening to them. 

Faking it. 

That was always their go-to line. 

Down below, Lila didn't argue anymore. With trembling hands, Lila slowly picked up the silver cake knife. She cut the biggest slice of the pink cake, carefully placed it on a paper plate, and pushed it to the empty spot at the table. 

My spot. 

Looking down at her pale, guilty face, I felt a sharp pang in my chest. Or at least, where my chest used to be. 

Lila never asked for this. She never asked to be the favorite.

I remembered all those nights, long after Mom and Dad had gone to bed. Lila would sneak into my room. The expensive, high-calorie nutritional shakes, the heart-health vitamin gummies, the imported supplements—the things Mom guarded like gold, strictly rationed for Lila. Lila would save half of her daily dose and hide it in the secret pocket of my backpack. 

She knew Mom only bought me cheap TV dinners and canned soup. So, even when Lila was dizzy, when her heart rate was erratic and she could barely stand, she’d still sneak me her supplements. She’d leave little sticky notes: Eat up. You need this to grow.

And the money. Every relative who visited slipped Lila cash out of pity. She never spent a dime on herself. She saved every penny for years just to buy me that professional watercolor set. Whenever Mom grounded me, Lila would try to take the blame. “I’m sorry, Scarlett,”she used to cry. “If I wasn't born with this stupid heart disease, Mom and Dad wouldn't ignore you like this.”

Now, Mom was leaning down, pressing her cheek against Lila’s hair. 

"Don't feel bad for her, sweetheart," Mom whispered, her voice dripping with toxic resentment. "Scarlett is just ungrateful. You are the one who took the brunt of this family's genetic curse. You’re the one who has to suffer through the hospital visits and the needles. And what does she do? She gets jealous. She tries to steal your love. She has no idea how lucky she is to be healthy."

Hearing that made something snap inside me. 

Was I jealous? 

Hell yes, I was jealous. 

I was jealous that when Lila got a mild fever, Mom would stay up for forty-eight hours straight, giving her sponge baths and checking her pulse every ten minutes. I was jealous that all Lila had to do was whimper the word “Mom” and she’d instantly be wrapped in a warm, protective hug. 

But me? When I coughed so hard I threw up in the middle of the night, when my lungs burned like they were filled with crushed glass, Mom would just storm into my room, pound her fist on the wall, and scream, “Cut the crap, Scarlett! You’re keeping your sister awake! Go to sleep!”

I wasn't faking it. I never faked it. 

I drifted down from the ceiling. I reached out, aiming for Lila’s shaking shoulder. I just wanted to comfort her. I wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault. 

My fingers phased right through her gray sweater. 

I froze. I stared at my translucent hand, then at the empty plate of cake Lila had set out for me. 

I'm dead. 

The realization hit me again, colder this time. I turned away from the dining table and drifted toward the hallway.

I reached the basement door. It was heavy, solid oak, and the deadbolt on the outside was locked tight. Mom had locked it three hours ago after our fight, telling me to "stay down there and think about my selfish attitude until I learned how to act like a sister."

The basement was pitch black, except for the faint yellow glow of a streetlamp filtering through the tiny, dirty ground-level window. The air down here was thick, damp, and smelled heavily of mildew and wet cardboard. 

I drifted down the wooden stairs. 

And then I saw it. 

Tucked away in the far corner, right between the rusted washing machine and a stack of old moving boxes, was my body. 

I was curled into a tight fetal position on the cold concrete floor. One hand was desperately clutching the collar of my shirt, like I had been trying to rip it open to get more air. My face was a deep, mottled shade of purple. My eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the dusty baseboards. My lips were parted in a silent, final gasp. 

Stiff. Cold. Utterly lifeless. 

For eighteen years, the doctors, the relatives, the neighbors—my entire family—had braced themselves for a tragedy. They had set their watches to it. Everyone in that house was absolutely convinced that Lila was the one who wouldn't survive past midnight. 

But the one who actually died on our eighteenth birthday night... was me.