Chapter 2
Helen had slit her wrists; she was in danger.
The image of her bleeding out flashed behind my eyes, a wave of panic swallowing me whole. I drifted straight home, my ghostly form passing through the walls as if they were mist.
The living room was already in chaos.
Relatives had seen the knife and were scrambling to staunch the bleeding, voices clashing over whether to call an ambulance.
"I'm not going to the hospital! I have to wait for Taylor's performance!" Helen shouted.
She fought them off, shoving away helping hands, her fingers stabbing at her phone screen, bombarding my number with message after message.
I floated closer, hovering just behind her shoulder.
There, on the screen, I saw the contact name she had saved for me—Taylor.
My nose tingled, and tears threatened to spill.
Figures.
My relatives gathered around, trying to comfort her, saying I'd be fine and do great out there.
But her eyes stayed glued to the phone, glassy and unblinking. "Taylor should be taking the stage soon... Any minute now... Just a little longer..." she mumbled, like a broken record.
Then, her phone buzzed—not a message, but a call.
A blocked number, one that had tried endlessly before, finally got through—it was 911.
My coach couldn't reach Helen, so he had no choice but to call the cops.
Helen let out a sharp tsk and hung up without a second thought.
The police called again, and she hung up again.
After three or four times, she finally swiped to answer, her voice shrill with irritation.
"What are you even doing? Taylor's about to go on stage! Can you really afford to waste time right now?"
On the other end, there was a moment of silence, then a stern voice spoke up.
"Are you Helen Lewis, Taylor Summers' mother? This is the Westside City Police Department. We've received a report that Taylor had an accident backstage at the World of Dance. Please verify your identity and help us confirm what happened right away."
She ended the call with another brutal jab.
Spitting in disgust on the floor, she snapped, her voice sharp and furious. "Stupid scammers! How dare they interrupt me when I'm waiting for Taylor's performance!"
The relatives looked at each other, pale and worried.
After a long pause, my uncle, Vincent Lewis, finally dared to speak, choosing his words with obvious caution. "Helen... is it possible... that something has actually happened to Taylor?"
Helen's face froze, her eyes turning cold as she glared at him. "Don't talk nonsense! Taylor's just fine!"
As if on cue, her phone chimed softly with a notification.
Her furious expression melted away, replaced by a radiant, triumphant smile.
"See that? Taylor sent money and a text telling me to relax. Nothing to worry about, right?"
Hanging in the air, I stared at the timed transaction, a chill trembling through me.
I'd set it up days ago, worried I'd get too nervous before showtime and forget to send it.
Vincent opened his mouth to speak again, but my aunt, Fiona Lewis, grabbed his arm sharply, silencing him.
The others quickly plastered on smiles, tripping over themselves to agree.
"How thoughtful of Taylor! You're so lucky, Helen!"
Somewhat placated, Helen turned back to the television, her gaze fixed, her conviction absolute.
"Taylor is the most obedient, most considerate child. Maybe a little too fond of snacks sometimes, but never any real trouble.
"Such a good boy... what could possibly go wrong?"
I stood beside her, my spectral head bowing slowly.
I whispered into the air, "I'm sorry, Mom. This time, I'm really letting you down. But I swear, I never meant to die."
And honestly, I never snuck snacks or anything like that.
I always followed her meal plan, even when I was starving and about to faint—I never ate more than I was supposed to.
There were only two times I ever slipped up.
Once, it was the cake. The other time, the team was celebrating a win.
They had a bottle of sparkling cider—barely any alcohol at all.
I'd never tried it. It seemed novel, harmless. Teased by my teammates, I took one tiny, hesitant sip.
The very next second, Helen appeared in the doorway of the private room, her lunchbox in hand.
My soul nearly left my body—I fumbled to hide the cup, panicking.
She walked in, her eyes sweeping the scene. At the sight of the untouched cake on the table, her expression softened slightly.
But then her gaze landed on the bottle of cider, and her face hardened into something stormy and terrifying.
"Did you drink this?" she asked, her voice sharp.
"N-No, I didn't," I replied, my voice shaky.
My coach tried to defuse the situation. "Well, it's just a soft drink, basically juice..."
"Back off," she said coldly, not even looking at him.
Then, she marched toward me.
I tried to bolt, but her hand clamped down on my shoulder, keeping me from moving.
She grabbed my chin and pried my mouth open, her nose practically pressed to my face, sniffing me like a bloodhound.
"You drank it!" She spat out the words, grinding her teeth.
Then, out of nowhere, she smacked herself across the face, hard.
The sound echoed in the suddenly silent room.
Helen went totally hysterical, screaming like she'd lost her mind.
"How could you drink? You lied to me again! Even you betrayed me! What's the point of living if I can't trust you? I might as well just end it!"
With that, she ran straight into the wall.
A sickening thud. Blood streamed down her forehead instantly. Another episode.
Terror swallowed me whole. I threw myself at her, wrapping my arms around her, sobbing out promises and desperate oaths that I would always, always obey.
That night, I begged in front of her the whole night, and even switched to a new dance team just to stay away from my old teammates. That was the only way she'd finally drop it.
I had thought it was over, buried in the past.
Turned out, she never did.
Helen remembered everything—clear as day, not even for a second did she forget.
A hollow, aching pain spread through my chest.
Then, gently, a pair of arms encircled me from behind.
It was the pale, quiet boy who had been following me in silence.
He gathered me into a gentle embrace and whispered, "Lila."