Wasn't it Emily who had tormented me? She had turned the tables so skillfully, casting herself as the victim and me the villain.
I lowered my gaze, tears salty on my tongue, filling my mouth with bitterness.
They never believed me. In their eyes, it was always Emily.
Even when she plotted filthy rumors against me at school, rallied bullies against me, tried to sabotage my exams— I told my parents the truth, but Emily just had to shed a few tears, play the victim, and they turned on me.
They would lash out, scold me, beat me, and throw me out into the rain for the entire night.
They believed every word she said and dismissed mine as mere excuses.
I endured and kept pulling back, trying to fit into a family where I was perpetually the outsider.
Now, dead, I was finally free from the desperate hope for a shred of the affection that never came.
On the sixth day, a foul odor began to permeate the house.
I was perched atop the coffin lid, watching my parents arrange Emily's favorite items around it—a stack of video games, bundles of play money, and elegant dresses.
All of which were Emily's favorites.