Chapter 7: Cot on the Balcony

Mrs. Carter was taken away!

After she kept resisting, scratched a police officer’s neck, and threatened to kill me, she was now facing 24 hours of detention.

The police looked at me with pity, asking if I needed them to contact any other relatives.

He tactfully told me they could only do so much—if I insisted on having Mrs. Carter detained, things would get even harder for me when she got out.

I nodded eagerly, thanked him!

But I also insisted—she had to be detained!

At least, I could get a good night’s sleep!

The police looked even more distressed for me.

He pointed at Natalie.

"Is that your older or younger sister? Is she okay?"

Compared to my sorry state, the always blank, withdrawn Natalie looked even more worrying.

I forced a bitter smile, tapped my head, and said loud enough for Natalie to hear: "Her? She’s got a screw loose. Idiot."

Natalie stiffened, even gritted her teeth.

Out of concern, the police contacted our dad, who was always away working, only coming home for Christmas or when Natalie won some award.

He apologized politely to the police, promised to come back and keep his wife in check.

But I knew, at least for the next two days, he wouldn’t come home.

After sending off the police, I yawned.

Natalie looked at me with a weird expression.

I stretched, marched straight into Natalie’s bedroom, and sprawled on her bed without hesitation.

The room smelled like strawberry shampoo and fresh laundry—way better than my dusty old cot. About five minutes later, footsteps approached.

I opened my eyes to see Natalie standing by the bed, face dark, staring at me.

"This is my room."

"Oh."

"Please leave."

"What if I don’t?"

"This is my room!"

"Is that all you know how to say? Aren’t all your essays picked as model essays? What, you really treasure this bed? You especially like it?"

Natalie went silent, lips pressed even tighter, her gaze at me growing colder.

"Since you don’t like it, lend it to me for a night. This soft bed, these fluffy covers—it’s my first time sleeping on them! Fine, see yourself out, close the door for me!"

I closed my eyes and ignored her.

I don’t know how long it was before she finally left—and actually closed the door for me.

Just not very gently.

Tch, so she does have feelings!

I thought she was really above it all.

Rolling over, I buried myself in the covers.

What I said to Natalie wasn’t just to provoke her.

In this three-bedroom apartment, there was no room for me.

There used to be—the smallest, darkest study.

But when Natalie started piano, to make room for an instrument worth over ten grand, Mrs. Carter emptied out my room and put a sliding door on the balcony.

That space was so tiny, it couldn’t even fit a bed.

So Mrs. Carter bought a folding cot. My old cot was topped with a worn-out Spider-Man sheet, and every night the sound of cicadas buzzed outside the window.

Dad objected: "That’s too much. Where will Lillian sleep?"

Mrs. Carter didn’t care: "What else can we do? The house is only so big! Mrs. Bailey says Natalie is gifted at piano, might become a prodigy! For Natalie, we all have to make sacrifices! If she was as capable as Natalie, I’d favor her too!"

After that, Dad was silent for a long time, then just sighed and said nothing.

So I lived on the cramped balcony—for nearly ten years.

I hated Mrs. Carter, hated Dad.

But the one I hated most was Natalie.

She calmly enjoyed everything, never spoke up for me against Mrs. Carter’s harshness, neglect, or beatings.

Countless times, I looked at her with hope, but always ended in disappointment.

I even felt her gaze at me was cold, condescending, and pleased.

She hated me, just as I hated her.

But what right did she have to hate me?

That night, I slept fitfully, dreaming countless dreams.

Dreams of Mrs. Carter, Dad.

But mostly of Natalie and Derek.

Natalie falling from a building, her head smashed, face unrecognizable.

Everyone screaming, collapsing.

One by one, they shook my shoulders, demanding: "Why wasn’t it you who died?"

Those hideous faces slowly became clear—it was Derek’s face!

He gripped my neck, teeth clenched.

"Why wasn’t it you who died?"