The Death Birthday

I died in agony on my own birthday, and no one in my family even realized it.

They were busy decorating for Stella's party, complaining about how I was throwing another tantrum, never realizing I was there as nothing more than a soul.

I floated above the living room, watching my mother carry in a life-sized teddy bear from outside.

"This is the limited edition Stella's been talking about for three months!" she said excitedly. "I waited in line for four hours."

Father followed closely behind with a custom dress bag. "Don't let it wrinkle. This was air-shipped from Paris."

George entered last, carrying a cake box with "To Our Little Princess Stella" written.

No one cared that today was also my birthday.

"Stella baby, sit down and rest," Father immediately went to her, "Are you exhausted? We'll handle the rest."

Stella wore the white dress I had wanted for my birthday last year but was denied. She said sweetly, "I'm fine, Daddy. Let me help."

"No no no, today you're the little princess, you don't need to do anything." Mother waved her hand, "Diana will come down to help."

George shouted upstairs: "Diana? Come down and help with stuff. Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean you can let Stella do all the work."

Everyone naturally assumed our shared birthday was "a day to serve Stella."

Just like the past twenty-eight years.

However, I was nothing now—invisible, voiceless, powerless to serve Stella.

George frowned and pulled out his phone to dial my number.

The ringtone came from the direction of the storage room.

"Strange," George muttered, "why is her phone..."

"Sister might be taking a shower," Stella naturally walked over and hung up the call, "George, let me help you decorate. I know what style sister likes~"

George gently pressed her shoulder: "It's okay, go rest. I'll wait for Diana to help."

Stella nodded.

And George's gentle expression instantly disappeared.

He redialed my number and left a voicemail this time:

"Diana, get down here. The party's about to start. Today is about celebrating Stella's birthday, so don't ruin the mood."

Mother came out of the kitchen, rolling her eyes: "Diana's throwing another fit."

"Whenever something doesn't go her way, she disappears." George shoved his phone in his pocket, voice full of impatience, "She always waits for people to come begging her back."

Father said, "She's just spoiled... The real princess of this party is Stella. Doesn't matter if Diana shows up or not. Let her be."

Just then, Stella started again: "Daddy, don't say that... Today is also sister's birthday. How can we celebrate without her? I'll go find her."

"Our Stella is so kind." Mother lovingly stroked Stella's hair.

The whole family praised her for being so sweet and caring, completely blind to the fact that she wasn't planning to search at all.

I watched Stella walk toward the storage room and kicked open the storage room door.

The flashlight beam swept across the pile of junk, illuminating me lying in the corner—neck twisted at an impossible angle, eyes half-open, dried blood at the corner of my mouth.

She was startled at first, then covered her mouth—not in horror, but to suppress an excited laugh.

I watched her crouch down and lightly kick my shin with her toe: "Hey, who are you playing dead for? Get up, sister. Don't try to take the spotlight or ruin my party."

No response. Because I was already dead.

"Stella? Are you there?" George's voice came from the living room.

Stella quickly stood up, pushing my body deeper into the junk pile before leaving.

"Sleep well, sister," she whispered, "Tonight, I'll be Mom and Dad's only little princess."

Then she walked out of the storage room and threw herself into George's arms: "I'm sorry George, this is my fault. I looked everywhere, but I can't find Diana."

George replied, "Then forget about her. Today is your day."

I smiled bitterly watching all this.

Indeed, in their eyes, every one of our birthdays belonged to Stella.

Thinking back to past birthdays—the cake always said "Happy Birthday Stella," gifts were always "let Stella pick first," and Mom and Dad always demanded my birthday wish be "I hope Stella is happy."

But this year, I won't make that wish anymore.

A month ago, the doctor told me I had heart failure and wouldn't live much longer.

The diagnosis was clearly laid out on the table, but my parents just laughed and said I was "performing and playing victim for sympathy."

As I stood there, an overwhelming sense of absurdity washed over me—my breakdown, my fears, and the trembling signals of distress I extended were, in their eyes, merely a laughable performance.

Yet, what they didn't know was I never wanted to compete with Stella for anything. I had long accepted being "Stella's supporting act." And I have meticulously prepared a birthday gift for Stella.

This year, my only birthday wish was to spend it with nanny Rena—the only person who cared about me—then quietly move to hospice care.

But I didn't make it to that day.

This morning, while I was at home, a group of thugs suddenly broke in. They raped me and filmed it.

I begged them to let me go, but that only excited them more. They humiliated me over and over, making me smile and pose for the camera until I passed out.

Just as I was on the brink of losing consciousness, my hand brushed against the voice recorder nestled in my pocket—the very device I used to capture musical inspirations.

I pressed the record button.

"Tell Stella the video's done," one thug said while getting dressed, "Now her sister will never be in the way again."

Eventually, they cast me aside in the storeroom and departed.

When I woke up, my phone had fallen within reach—but my arm was broken, I couldn't reach it.

I used my chin to inch the phone closer, finally unlocking the screen.

George was at the top of my contacts. I called him, he hung up. Then I called my parents, they hung up too.

Finally I got George's reply: "Busy with Stella's party. Don't bother me unless it's important."

I remembered on the first day we dated, he had promised: "My phone's on 24/7. If you call me, even if I'm on the other side of the earth, I'll fly right back."

Back then, I even laughed that he was being too dramatic. What could possibly happen to me that would need him to appear by my side immediately?

I never imagined that when that day really came, he wouldn't even answer my call.

Holding onto my last shred of hope, I called George one final time.

But he hung up directly again.

That moment I understood—he didn't care about me anymore.

Then I received another message: "Diana, stop calling. What could you possibly have that's so important? Stop deliberately bothering us. See you at tonight's party."

I stared at those words until they blurred together through my tears.

I won't appear at that party. They'll never see me again in this lifetime.

I'm dead.

When they find me, all they'll see is my twisted corpse forgotten in the storage room, along with the farewell gifts I carefully prepared for them.