Chapter 2: The Family’s True Colors

I just stood there silently.

The world kept turning—the cars zipped by on the main road, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance, the sprinklers clicked on next door. But inside, it was as if time had stopped just for me.

Suddenly, I realized maybe I should leave.

The thought didn’t come with a sense of relief. It felt heavy, sinking in my stomach, thick as molasses. It was the first time the idea didn’t scare me—it just made sense.

In three years, Aubrey had staged so many suicide attempts—smearing ketchup to fake cutting her wrists, swallowing vitamin C as if they were sleeping pills, running away from home to stage fake car accidents… At least ten times.

Every incident was a performance, and we all played our roles. Sometimes I wondered if she even remembered half the scenes she’d created.

She was unreasonable and made trouble for no reason, all for one purpose: to drive me away.

Each time, she found a new script—a new way to make me the villain, a new reason for the family to focus on her pain instead of mine.

In this house, it was either her or me.

The walls felt closer each day, the air thicker. It was a silent standoff, each of us holding our breath, waiting for someone to leave.

She’d even told the family directly, many times, that just seeing me made her anxious and set her off. She couldn’t live peacefully with me around. So, I had to go!

I remember those words echoing in the kitchen, the living room, even the car. She said them calmly, as if she were reading off a grocery list: "I just can’t exist in the same house as her."

The family never indulged her. They scolded her every time and grew more and more impatient with her. But this time, Aubrey just jumped from the second floor, and it revealed how the family truly felt.

The scolding had grown softer over the years. Today, it felt more like background noise—a formality before the inevitable comfort.

I let out a bitter laugh—soft, almost invisible, like my presence in this family over the past three years.

It caught in my throat, half a sob, half a hiccup. No one heard it, or if they did, they pretended not to.

My dad turned and glared at me. "Natalie, you’re still laughing! Don’t you know to come help?"

His voice cut through the haze, sharp as a slap. Heat prickled behind my eyes. I pressed my lips together, swallowing the urge to yell back. He looked at me like I was a stranger who’d wandered into his home uninvited.

My mom didn’t say anything, but she was clearly annoyed at how indifferent I was.

She pursed her lips, eyes flickering away from me. The disappointment in her face was worse than any words she could have said.

I was the older sister—how could I just stand by when my little sister was hurt?

The old family photos on the wall—one of me holding Aubrey as a baby—felt like a lie. I barely recognized the people in them anymore.

I walked over stiffly and crouched down to help Aubrey. The moment I touched her leg, she cried out in exaggerated pain, tears streaming down her face.

Her scream was high and sharp, slicing through the air. She twisted away from me, her fingers digging into the grass. The neighbors across the fence paused their grilling, peering over with concern.

My mom panicked and quickly pushed me away. "Enough, enough, we don’t need you!"

Her hand was gentle but firm, ushering me out of the circle like an unwanted guest at Thanksgiving dinner. I stumbled back, cheeks burning with humiliation.

I stood there in silence again.

The world shrank to a pinprick; my ears rang with the echoes of their frantic voices and Aubrey’s whimpering.

Derek came out with the belt and pushed me aside once more, telling me not to block the way.

He barely looked at me, as if I were a piece of furniture that needed moving. I bit my lip to keep from snapping back.

The three of them busied themselves, full of worry and care, as if they were terrified Aubrey might bleed out.

Mom pressed the pillow beneath Aubrey’s head, Dad hovered with his phone on speaker, Derek knelt at her side. They formed a tight, protective huddle around her—leaving no space for me.

When the ambulance arrived, my mom went with Aubrey to the hospital. My dad and Derek each drove their own cars, following close behind.

Tires squealed on the driveway. The sirens faded into the night, leaving the house unnaturally still, except for the clock ticking over the mantel.

The house grew quiet, with only the cleaning lady left, scrubbing up the bloodstains.

Her sponge made slow circles, the scent of bleach filling the air. She didn’t look at me—just kept her head down, working the spots out of the carpet.

I stood for a while, then went inside to drink a glass of water. It was just plain tap water, but somehow it made me choke up and cry.

The kitchen light flickered. The water tasted metallic and sharp. I gripped the glass tight, blinking back tears that wouldn’t stop, my chest tight as a fist.

After wiping away my tears, I opened my laptop and stared blankly at my college application form.

The screen glowed pale blue, my reflection ghostly in the glass. My cursor blinked on the line: "First-choice college?"

Actually, I’d come home today to ask the family one last time: Which college should I apply to?

I’d rehearsed the conversation in my head a hundred times, practicing my lines as if that would change their answer.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come home so early.

I usually stayed out, found any excuse to avoid the dinner table tension and tiptoeing around Aubrey’s moods.

A long time ago, I started looking for ways to avoid Aubrey—staying late at school, volunteering, riding the city bus all day with nowhere to go, reading on park benches until dark… Anything to spend less time at home and avoid setting Aubrey off.

Sometimes I’d pretend to study at the library or kill time at the twenty-four-hour diner on Main, sipping endless refills of burnt coffee, watching people come and go while my phone buzzed with check-in texts from Mom.

The family felt sorry for how considerate I was and always told me I didn’t have to do that.

They’d pat my shoulder, offer extra dessert, and assure me that they understood.

"Natalie, you’re our child too. Don’t worry, we won’t play favorites!"

Dad always tried to sound firm, but his voice had a guilty edge, like he was apologizing for something he didn’t want to admit.

"Aubrey is just too sensitive. This is hard on us too—we’ll talk to her!"

Mom said it with her best reassuring smile, eyes darting over my shoulder to where Aubrey always hovered nearby, listening in.

That’s what they said.

They said it at birthday dinners, after arguments, and in cards slipped under my bedroom door.

But they’d been saying it for three years.

And nothing changed.

Each year, the words felt emptier, their voices fainter, the promises dissolving like sugar in tea.

Today, Aubrey really “attempted suicide” for the first time. Even though she only jumped from the second floor, she instantly became the center of everyone’s love.

Suddenly, the house was alive with the kind of worry and attention she’d always craved. My own presence faded further into the background.

All that “teaching” had completely failed.

I realized then: this script would never change, no matter how many times we acted it out.