Ashes of the Unloved

They told me to drop dead. So I did. Why do they cry now? Terminal brain cancer stripped me to the scalp. A few brittle strands clung to my head. I just wanted a wig.

Before the end. I refused to let a hollow skull ruin my memorial photo. I tapped my card at the register.

The screen flashed "Declined." I wired my entire paycheck to my mom yesterday. My hands shook as I hit dial. "Mom?

Can you spot me fifty bucks?" Her toxic shrieks pierced the speaker before I even finished. "You live under my roof! What do you even need cash for?

You barely started working and you already beg for handouts. I wasted my life raising you!" Brooke giggled in the background. I bit my lip hard, choking back tears.

My thumb hovered over the red button. Then, her tone flipped. "Brooke comes home today. Get your ass home and cook dinner!" I crumpled the hospital diagnosis in my pocket.

Black spots danced across my vision. They didn't know. I only had days left to live. Chapter 1 "Sorry.

I can't take the wig." I shoved the synthetic strands back across the register. I pulled a cheap, pillcovered beanie over my scalp. It was itchy. Ugly.

But it hid the barren, bruised skin underneath. Laughter bled through the front door of my parents' house. Over the din, my nephew Hunter was shrieking.

I dragged a lungful of air into my burning chest. I knocked. The door swung open. Brooke beamed at me.

She poked her head out, her face plastered with a level of enthusiastic warmth I had never seen from her before. "Cleo! Finally!

We've been waiting forever." Her manicured nails dug into my bicep. She yanked me inside before I could blink. A strange older couple perched on the living room sofa.

Their eyes swept over me like scanners. A younger guy stood beside them. Crisp suit. Slicked hair. The textbook definition of a corporate golden boy.

Brooke shoved me toward him. "This is my little sister, Cleo. Don't they just look perfect together?" A forced ambush blind date.

The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe. "Brooke, I—" She clamped a hand on my wrist, hauling me into the hallway. "Cleo, Mom and Dad set this up," she hissed. "Don't you dare ruin this for them." I glanced past her shoulder.

My parents were actually smiling. The protest died in my throat. "The heat is blasting in here. Take that ugly thing off." Brooke reached for my beanie. I jerked back.

My spine slammed against the wall. Brooke's smile froze. "I'm just getting over the flu," I blurted out, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Chills.

I need to keep it on." Her eyes narrowed, flashing with cold, impatient annoyance.

Dinner was an ambush. "Silas just made regional director," his mother bragged, waving her fork. "He and Cleo would be a power couple." Silas offered a modest, almost shy smile—a perfect act for my parents. "The ball is in her court." He was sizing me up.

Waiting for me to fall in line. I pushed peas around my plate. The dining table fell dead silent.

My mother's elbow jammed into my ribs. "Stop staring at your food and talk to Silas." I set my fork down.

The metal clinked against the porcelain. "Actually, I'm not—" Before I could finish, Hunter lunged from his chair and ripped the beanie right off my head.

The clinking of silverware stopped. The entire table went completely still. Hunter pointed at my bare, veiny head and shrieked with laughter. "Cleo is a bald freak!

So ugly!" I scrambled. My fingernails scraped the hardwood floor as I snatched the fabric and shoved it back over my skull. I dragged my gaze up. They were all staring.

Silas's mother recoiled, her lip curling in revulsion. "Her hair is gone. Is she diseased?" Brooke jumped up, her chair screeching. "She's perfectly healthy!

Just going through an edgy phase! It'll grow back in no time." Nobody bought it. Silas stared at me.

The polite corporate facade melted, leaving clear disgust. "I don't have a fetish for bald women." He tossed his napkin onto his plate. They walked out. The front door slammed shut.

Hunter lunged at my head again, his grubby fingers clawing for the beanie. A wave of nausea hit me. I shoved his shoulder. Hard.

He stumbled back, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The wailing started immediately. "Grandma! Grandpa! Aunt Cleo hit me!" I opened my mouth to speak.

A sharp slap exploded across my cheek. Chapter 2 Mom's face twisted with rage. "You did that on purpose, didn't you? Humiliating me in front of them!

And now you're bullying Hunter!" Dad loomed behind her. "Your mother is right. You knew about the setup. You buzzed your hair just to embarrass us.

You slapped us right in the face." Fire blistered across my cheek.

My throat seized. "You only care about your image," I choked out, fighting the raw sting in my eyes. "Did you ever stop to think that I might be s—" "Cleo, enough." Brooke's voice sliced through mine.

She slipped her arm around Mom's shoulders, playing the perfect, understanding daughter. "Mom, Dad, she's just acting out.

Don't let her spike your blood pressure." Mom swiped at her dry eyes. "What did I do to deserve such an ungrateful daughter?" Brooke rubbed her back. "Deep breaths, Mom.

It's not worth a stroke." "Brooke, you're my only saving grace. Not like this…" Mom glared at me. Brooke drifted over.

Her manicured fingers clamped around my wrist. "Cleo, you crossed a line today. We're family. Just apologize to Mom and she'll let it slide." I wrenched my arm away.

Brooke stumbled back, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she caught her balance. Mom lunged. Crack.

Another slap connected with my jaw. "How dare you touch your sister?!" Brooke grabbed Mom's elbow, her eyes wide with fake panic. "Stop, Mom, it's fine.

She doesn't know any better." "She's twentyfour! Almost twentyfive!" Mom spat. "When you were her age, you were already pregnant with Hunter.

She's nothing but a constant headache!" The air squeezed out of my lungs. I stared at the pure disgust etched into my father's face.

I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm the headache?" My voice shook. "When Brooke got pregnant, I had to give up all my free time and take high school night classes just to babysit her kid during the day.

I gave up my dream college for a cheap state school just to save you money. I hand over every single paycheck. I literally don't have fifty bucks to my name.

I'm your daughter too." The words tasted like ash. "How can you be this cruel?" Mom's face hardened. "Why are you always playing the victim? Brooke was missing for eight years.

She lived through hell.

What's wrong with giving her a little extra care?" "So because she was gone for eight years, I have to pay for it for the rest of my life?" Blood pounded in my ears.

The room tilted. "What if I'm sick?" The words finally tumbled out of my mouth. "What if I'm dying?" Dead silence.

Then, my dad scoffed. "You're faking a terminal illness now just to steal the spotlight?" "Fine. Then drop dead." I already knew the answer. Why did I expect anything else?

Someone had abducted Brooke at a playground when she was three. My parents lost their minds. Mom stopped eating. Dad quit his firm and drove across the country hunting for a ghost.

Year two. Mom traced a faded photo of Brooke. "Let's have another," she whispered, her eyes hollow. "Just to feel like Brooke is still here." So, they had me. My name is Cleo.

Actually, they originally wanted to name me Spare. Mom stared through the nursery glass and said, "She'll never compare to my Brooke.

She's just a spare part." Luckily, a pitying nurse put Cleo on my birth certificate instead. Chapter 3 I spent my entire childhood hunting for scraps of affection. A nod.

A ghost of a smile. I convinced myself Mom and Dad loved me just as much as the ghost they lost. Then, eight years later, the ghost walked through the front door.

I had a perfect report card clutched in my fist that day. I shoved the door open, ready to finally make them proud. I froze.

A girl with a face like a distorted mirror image of mine stood in the living room. Mom and Dad clung to her.

Their sobs rattled the picture frames. "Our Brooke," Mom choked out, burying her face in the girl's neck. "We'll give you everything.

You'll never suffer again." I became a phantom in my own house. I scrubbed floors. I desperately tried to please them just so I wouldn't be abandoned.

Dad just stared right through me. "Cleo, stop hovering. Get out of our sight." Brooke and I shared a birthday.

Mom had scheduled a Csection so my birth date would always belong to her lost girl. Every year, they bought a massive strawberry cake. They lit the candles. They sang the song.

But I never got a single slice. Not even a crumb. The first birthday after they found her, I thought things would change. I thought we could finally share it.

I reached across the table for a fork. Brooke shattered the silence with a piercing wail. "Do you love her more than me now?" Tears flooded her cheeks.

Mom rushed to wrap her arms around Brooke's shaking shoulders. "Never.

You are our entire world." Brooke thrust a finger at me. "Then why does she get my birthday?" Mom stroked Brooke's hair, her voice frantic. "We only had her because we couldn't find you.

She was just a placeholder, sweetie. We never celebrated her." She kissed Brooke's forehead. "You are our only daughter." Brooke sniffled. The tears vanished.

A smile broke through her tears. "Promise me you'll never celebrate her birthday. Ever. Or I'll never speak to you again!" They nodded without hesitation.

They didn't even look at me. The heavy silence in the dining room snapped me back to reality.

Mom took my shock for a confession. "Speechless because I caught you in a lie?" She sneered. "Stop playing these pathetic mind games, Cleo.

If it wasn't for Brooke, you wouldn't even exist." Dad slammed his hand on the table. "Apologize to your mother and sister.

Now." A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled up in my throat as I stared at the people who were supposed to love me. Apologize? Never. I spun on my heel.

I grabbed the doorknob. "Walk out that door and you're dead to us!" Dad roared. "Go die in the streets for all I care!" I shoved the heavy wooden door open.

Freezing air slammed into my chest. My teeth chattered. I dragged my hands into my pockets and kept walking. The cheap acrylic beanie scratched against my raw scalp.

I didn't look back. Not once. I needed one thing. A decent memorial photo. The leatherbound albums in that house overflowed with Brooke's milestones.

I didn't have a single solo picture to my name. I counted the crumpled bills in my pocket. I ducked into a cramped, dusty photo studio on the corner. A bell chimed.

An older woman with kind eyes looked up from the counter. She offered a soft, genuine smile. "I need a portrait," I rasped. My voice sounded hollow.

She pointed to a faded velvet stool. "Have a seat, honey. Let's fix up your hair first." My fingers hooked the edge of the beanie. I pulled it off.

The harsh fluorescent light hit my bare, bruised scalp. Chapter 4 "You—" The woman gasped. "Brain cancer." The words scraped my throat. "I'm out of time.

Could you just… make me look decent? Or Photoshop some hair later?" I touched my bare scalp and forced a dry chuckle. "It's pretty hideous." The woman's breath hitched.

Water pooled in her eyes. "Don't worry," she whispered, her voice thick. "I'll give you the best picture you've ever had." She turned.

Her hands returned with a halo of soft, spunsugar pink. A wig.

She eased it over my skull, her fingertips featherlight against my bruised skin. "Pink suits you," she murmured. "Do you like it?" I gave a stiff nod. She grabbed a makeup brush.

Foundation erased the sickly gray of my cheeks. I stared into the vanity mirror. Soft, bouncy curls framed my face. My eyes looked huge. Alive.

For my entire life, I had shrunk myself down, swallowing my own voice just to fit into their perfectly safe, suffocating mold.

This was the first time I didn't have to care about what they thought and just lived for myself. The shutter clicked. I forced my lips to curve. The Polaroid spat out.

I stared at the glossy paper. My vision blurred. Hot liquid spilled over my eyelashes, cutting tracks through the fresh makeup. I was beautiful.

I shoved my last crumpled tendollar bill across a bakery counter. My second dying wish. A singleslice strawberry shortcake. Snowflakes drifted from the gray sky.

They melted against my eyelashes. The city sprawled around me. Millions of people. Nowhere to go. I dropped onto an icy park bench. My frozen fingers pried the cardboard box open.

White flakes landed on the pink frosting, dissolving into tiny, clear beads. Memory flashed. Sharp and brutal. I remembered my fifth birthday.

I wanted to taste the strawberry cake so badly that I sneaked out of bed in the middle of the night to open the fridge, only to be caught redhanded by Mom. "You greedy little parasite!

You want it so bad? Eat!" She shoved my face into the cake. The cardboard base scraped my nose. She clawed handfuls of thick, greasy buttercream and jammed them into my mouth.

I gagged. My airway clogged with sugar. "Swallow it! Choke on it and die!" I never tasted the strawberry. I only remembered the suffocating terror. Now, I was dying anyway.

My first cake. My last. "Happy birthday to me," I rasped to the empty park. I scraped a plastic fork through the cake. I placed it on my tongue.

The artificial sweetness coated the roof of my mouth. My chest convulsed. I couldn't stop my tears from falling. This was it. The taste of birthday cake. It tasted like ash.

It was disgusting. My phone vibrated against the wooden slats. The screen flashed. Mom.

I swiped the green icon. "Cleo!" Her screech vibrated through the speaker, slicing my eardrum. "Are you dead in a ditch?!

If you don't walk through this door right now, you are dead to me forever!" I stared at the lake in front of me. The water looked like black glass.

My heart was dead calm. "Mom," I whispered. "If I die… would that finally make you happy?" Not a single heartbeat of hesitation. "Yes!

Drop dead!" she shrieked. "Stop manipulating me with your empty threats! Go drown yourself if you have the guts!" Click. I set the phone down on the frosty wood. I stood up.

My boots crunched against the snow. I walked toward the water. The freezing tide swallowed my ankles. Then my knees. Then my waist. The cold stopped hurting.

My lungs filled with ice. I pictured my swollen, blue corpse drifting to the surface. Would they cry?

Chapter 5 Before I could process the freezing water, I was suddenly tethered back to my parents' living room. A ghost in my own house.

Mom's thumb jabbed at her phone screen, redialing my number. "This little brat is completely out of control," she snarled at the ringing phone. "Ignoring my calls?

Just wait until she walks through that door. I'll tear her apart." Brooke peeled an orange.

She placed a perfect wedge into Mom's hand, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Mom, breathe.

Don't let her ruin your health." Mom's harsh features melted. "Brooke, you're an angel. Not like that ungrateful parasite…" It still hurt to hear those words.

I knew she favored Brooke. But hearing the venom in her voice still burned. I thought my disappearance would trigger a fraction of panic. Just a delusion.

Dad's phone vibrated against the coffee table. The buzzing shattered the room's quiet. He swiped to answer. He pressed the phone to his ear. Total silence.

Mom's head snapped up. "Is it that ungrateful brat? Too cowardly to face me?" She lunged. She snatched the phone right out of his hand. Dad didn't fight her.

His face had drained of color. "Cleo, you have exactly thirty minutes!" Mom screamed into the receiver. "If you aren't home, don't bother coming back!" A tinny voice echoed from the speaker.

Mom's breath hitched. Her pupils dilated. She slammed the end button. Brooke's fake smile slipped. "Mom? Was that Cleo?" But I was dead. My lungs were full of ice water.

Who was on the line? I floated closer, watching the blood leave my mother's face. "They said…" Mom's jaw trembled.

Her perfectly manicured fingers shook uncontrollably. "They found a female body at Riverfront Park. They said it's Cleo." Her knees buckled.

Dad lunged, gripping her elbows before she hit the floor. "We have to go to the morgue to ID the body," he rushed out, his voice tight. "Hold it together." Moisture gathered in Mom's eyes. "How could she just… die?" "Is this a prank?" Brooke flicked a piece of orange pith off her nail, unfazed. "Cleo is obsessed with getting your attention.

She's just jealous of me. It's just a sick stunt." The panic in Mom's eyes flickered out. Denial rushed in to fill the void. "Right.

People don't just drop dead." Mom straightened her spine, the fury returning. "That little bitch. Faking her death to scare me?

I'll kill her myself when she walks in." Brooke guided Mom back to the sofa. "She'll come crawling back when she gets hungry. Don't stress." "Brooke is right.

We are not feeding into this toxic behavior," Dad muttered, handing Mom a mug of hot tea. They settled back into the cushions. A perfect, happy family.

My death didn't even leave a dent. Day three.

Another unknown number flashed on Mom's screen. "Is this Cleo's mother?" A deep, clinical voice. "This is Officer Miller from the Riverfront Precinct.

Cleo was pronounced dead three days ago.

We need next of kin down here to claim the remains." Mom exploded. "How much did she pay you?!" She shrieked into the receiver. "Tell that attentionseeking brat to stop acting and get her ass home!

Or she can stay gone permanently!" She didn't wait for a response. She jammed her thumb onto the screen, ending the call. Then, she blocked the precinct's number.

Chapter 6 Mom scowled, pacing the rug. "Cleo is completely out of control. Hiring actors to call us? Claiming her body is at the precinct?

What happens when we actually show up and call her bluff?" Dad set his coffee mug on the coaster. "She's your daughter. Stop keeping score.

We just need to give her a little more attention. The kid is starved for love." "Starved for love?" Mom snapped, her face twisting. "I put a roof over her head! I feed her!

Brooke survived eight years on the streets without a single complaint, and Cleo is the one playing the victim?" "But we did ignore her." Dad rubbed the back of his neck. "Think about it.

She shares a birthday with Brooke. We haven't celebrated Cleo once. Not in twentyfour years." "That was only because—" Mom stopped.

The fight drained out of her shoulders. "Her birthday is this Saturday. Let's throw her a party.

Just for her." Dad knelt beside her, massaging her legs with a fawning eagerness. "Cleo is going to be absolutely thrilled when she sees we're finally throwing her a party." Mom let out a shaky breath. "I just hope she gets it.

Brooke went through hell. I just needed to make it up to her." It still hurt to hear those words. They never said these things when I had a pulse.

I never needed them to love me equally. I just wanted a crumb. A single, leftover scrap of what they gave Brooke. Mom blinked, realization hitting her. "Wait.

What kind of cake does she even like?" Dad hesitated. "Strawberry, I think?" If my lungs weren't full of dirty lake water, I would have cried from pure joy. But I was already dead.

She was planning a twentyfourth birthday party for a rotting corpse. Mom snatched her phone. Her thumbs flew across the screen. Cleo, I'm not mad. Come home.

I have a huge surprise for you today. You have to come back. Are you really still holding a grudge? I stood inches from her shoulder, staring at the glowing screen.

The apology I had spent my entire life begging for. The birthday I always wanted. It was too late. The clock ticked. The silence in the living room stretched, pulling taut.

Mom chewed her lower lip. "Was I too hard on her? Is that why she's ignoring me?" Dad squeezed her hand. "No way. Cleo is a softie.

She's probably just buried in work and hasn't checked her screen." Mom nodded. She locked her eyes on the front door, her foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the hardwood.

The clock struck one, and a sudden knock came at the door. Mom vaulted off the sofa.

A massive, relieved smile split her face. "That's her!" She yanked the door open. "Cleo, you're final—" Her smile died. "Who are you?" she breathed. Dad rushed into the foyer.

Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch. The older cop flashed a gold badge. His voice was somber. "Are you the parents of Cleo?" Panic spiked in Mom's eyes. "Yes.

What did she do? Is she in trouble?" The two officers exchanged a long, heavy look.

Chapter 7 The older officer held out a manila folder, his voice somber. "Cleo committed suicide at Riverfront Park seven days ago.

Her remains are at the county morgue." "Impossible." Mom swayed. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin the color of wet ash.

Dad lunged, catching her under the arms. "She was perfectly fine. People don't just die!" "The medical examiner ruled it a suicide.

Here is the coroner's report." Mom's knees buckled and she nearly collapsed to the floor. Dad tightened his grip, hauling her upright. "Breathe.

You have to hold it together." Mom's manicured nails dug into Dad's forearm, piercing through his shirt. "You're right.

I—I have to go bring Cleo home." The morgue smelled like bleach and copper. I lay on a slab of cold stainless steel. My beanie had been taken off, leaving my head completely bare.

It looked a little ridiculous. Mom dragged her feet across the linoleum. She stopped beside the metal table.

Her shaking fingertips brushed my icy cheek. "Cleo, why are you so thin?" "You wanted a birthday party, remember? I bought you a strawberry cake. Your favorite.

Let's go home and eat it." Her voice cracked. "Stop sleeping. Wake up." Dad stared at my blue lips. Tears spilled over his lower lashes.

He wrapped his arms around Mom's shaking shoulders. "She's gone. Let her rest." Mom thrashed against his grip. "No! She's just sleeping!

She isn't dead!" She slammed her palms against the edge of the metal table. "Cleo! Open your eyes and look at me!" Dad locked his arms around her waist, dragging her back. "Stop it.

If she can see you right now, this would break her heart." The brutal reality finally shattered her delusion.

Mom collapsed over my rigid, icecold chest, wailing like a wounded animal. "Cleo! I'm sorry!

I never should have said those things!" Dad buried his face in her hair. "We need to let her go." Out in the sterile hallway, the officer handed Mom a clear plastic evidence bag. "We found this in her coat pocket.

The deceased was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. She likely chose this path to avoid burdening the family." A suffocating stillness dropped over the hallway