Chapter 3
My classmates were all craning their necks, straining to sneak a peek at me.
"If Mandy didn't have a nose, how would it get longer?" one of them whispered.
I shook myself out of those memories.
Without turning on the lights, I walked in and slumped onto the couch, letting the darkness swallow me up.
I turned on my phone.
The drama online about my parents was still going strong.
My parents showed my depression diagnosis right on camera.
My previous maid shared a video of me losing it and smashing things. She claimed I was spoiled and just acting out, saying I was in the rebellious phase after the exams.
She said my parents let her daughter stay with us, hoping someone my age could help straighten me out.
The online backlash started to fade away.
Then, folks who said they'd been helped by my parents began speaking up, defending my parents.
"Mr. and Mrs. Fischer have done tons of charity work over the years. There's no way they don't love their own kid."
"Yeah, Mr. Fischer saved my daughter's life. He treated her heart condition for free."
"When I was stuck in an abusive marriage, Mrs. Fischer was the one who helped me get out and win my divorce."
"They're seriously the best people ever!"
"How could such good people ever mistreat their own kid?"
"How can you trust what a kid says? Kids that age are very rebellious. Plus, she's dealing with depression."
All those furious accusations against my parents disappeared.
It was the first time in ten years I'd dared to stand up for myself.
It was like dropping a stone into a pond, setting off ripples. But soon, everything was back to normal, like nothing ever happened.
I couldn't hold back, so I posted a comment.
I wrote: [Just because someone's depressed or rebellious, does that automatically make everything they say a lie? If life was really so good, then why would they be depressed at all?]
Nobody even noticed.
My comment got buried under a flood of praise and gratitude for my parents.
Late at night, my parents called me one after another.
After all these years, this was a first.
This time, they weren't calling to make me go to some talk.
I stared at my phone as the screen lit up.
It went dark, then lit up again.
Then a text from Dad popped up.
He wrote: [Roxie's been crying nonstop, and your mom's so mad she's gotten sick over it. Mandy, even if you're angry at us, what did Roxie ever do to deserve this?
[Do you really think spouting nonsense on camera is gonna change anything? Everyone can see what's really going on. Your mom and I have never treated you badly.]
My mom texted me next.
She wrote: [You got bitten by that dog because you were playing and sneaked out the window. After all these years, what are you still feeling wronged about?]
Maybe after all these years of lying, my parents started to believe their own stories. Little by little, they'd completely lost sight of what was real.
The shadows of the trees outside pressed in against my window.
Still, I picked up my phone and replied: [It wasn't because I was playing. You two locked me in my room so you could go visit other kids.
[The media was busy singing your praises, telling the world about your shining achievements. You were too busy soaking up the spotlight to even remember I was locked up for three days.
[I was so hungry my stomach was bleeding. I had to climb over the wall just to fight a stray dog for a discarded food.]
That wasn't the first time.
By the time I was five, I'd already gotten used to it happening.
Every time my parents went off to visit other kids, I was always left behind and forgotten.
Just for a bite to eat, I became a street kid, roaming alleys and corners, trying to scrounge up whatever I could.
My eyes stung and I just couldn't go on typing.
My hands were trembling, but I still hit send.
Mom texted back almost instantly.
She wrote: [How many more years are you going to keep spinning this lie? Is it really so hard to admit you brought this on yourself by playing?
[We were swamped back then, your dad and I. But we busted our asses to make money all for you.]
I couldn't help but let out a wry laugh, my eyes stinging with tears.
The one in denial was never me.
I blocked both their numbers without a second thought. Then I powered off my phone.
As I lay in bed that night, it was so quiet it was almost scary.
I stared blankly at my phone screen.
Out of nowhere, I found myself thinking about the five-year-old Mandy again.
With blood all over me, I called my parents again and again. Thirty-two times in total.
That year, they brought a bunch of reporters to the orphanage just to visit a kid with nothing but a cold.
Meanwhile, they left me locked up at home.
The charity coverage blew up online, and what was supposed to be a quick half-day visit ended up stretching into a whole week.
Not a single person remembered me.
By the third night, my stomach was twisted up in knots from hunger.
I called them on my watch phone.
No matter how many times I tried, no one ever picked up.
Desperate, I smashed the window with a chair and scrambled out from the second-floor window.
My arm got cut by the edge of the glass, and when I landed on the grass, I broke my leg in the fall.
The moonlight that night was so bright, it made the ground look almost ghostly white.
I dragged myself out of the backyard, crawling and stumbling the whole way.
When I looked back, my blood was smeared all over the grass.