Chapter 1: The Stench No One Can Escape

Someone had sealed a Walmart bag full of rotting meat inside our fridge.

The smell wasn’t just bad—it clawed at the back of your throat, the kind of stench that gets into your hair, your clothes—everywhere. In our house, the fridge was already a battleground of leftovers and forgotten takeout. Seriously, you could lose a hand in there. But this? This was on a whole different level.

The second she opened it, Mom pinched her nose.

She recoiled so hard, she almost slammed the fridge door shut without thinking. Her voice came out muffled, like her nose was stuffed. “Who bought this?”

“It was probably Savannah,” my younger brother piped up, all innocence.

He didn’t even look up from his phone, just lobbed my name out there like a grenade. The way he said it—you’d think I was always the one at fault. There was a practiced innocence in his voice. Typical. I could almost roll my eyes.

Mom shot me a look—disgust, contempt, the works. “Don’t even mention that jinx. If she’s so clever, she can just disappear and spare me from ever seeing her again.”

She spat the words out, like my name tasted bitter in her mouth. For a second, I wondered if she’d ever say my name with anything but venom. Her eyes darted toward the living room, as if I might pop out any second and start something.

You could feel the chill settle in, the way it always did when my name came up.

“This meat’s gone bad! Why hasn’t anyone thrown it out?”

She waved the bag in the air, her voice rising with every syllable. The kitchen window rattled a little from the force of her frustration. The room seemed to shrink around her anger. I could feel it pressing in, heavy as always.

I stood behind her, feeling the sorrow settle on my face.

If I could’ve spoken, maybe she’d have heard the apology in my eyes. She never saw me. But all I could do was watch, my presence invisible, my heart squeezed tight.

But, Mom, come on—anyone’s meat would rot after five days.

I wanted to say it out loud, maybe even make a joke to lighten the mood. But the words hung in the air, unsaid. Just like all the others between us.

Mom put the bag of rotten meat back in the fridge.

It thudded onto the shelf, right next to last week’s forgotten chicken casserole. The door closed with a dull thump, sealing the smell inside for now, but not the dread. I shivered, wishing it could lock away more than just the stink.

That evening, sure enough, Mom grabbed the Walmart bag to get dinner started.

She always moved fast when she was cooking, like she was racing against something only she could see. But tonight, she hesitated, eyeing the bag like it might bite her. I held my breath, watching.

The smell hit us first—so thick and rancid it made your eyes water. Even the dog whined and slunk under the table. The sight of those wriggling maggots was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. I gagged.

“This meat is rotten! Throw it out, now!” Mom snapped, still holding her nose. She shoved the bag away from her, hands shaking.

She held the bag away from her body like it might explode. Her voice was sharp, brittle, the way it got when she was truly disgusted. You could tell she wanted to blame someone—anyone. The tension was thick.

My brother frowned at the bag of rotten meat.

He made a face—like he’d never eat meat again. He looked at Mom for direction, waiting for her to hand down the next order.

“It must be from Savannah. I’ll go throw it out right now.”

His voice was a little too quick, a little too eager to please. Almost like he’d practiced. The accusation slipped out so easily, it was almost routine.

No— I tried to stop him, reaching out, but my hand passed straight through Mom and my brother.

My fingers tingled with the effort, but it was useless. Nothing. Just cold air. I tried again, desperate, but it was like reaching for a memory—there, but not really. The world felt colder with every failed attempt.

My head snapped up just as I grew frantic, the sound of the front door opening echoing through the house.

The hinges squeaked, the familiar sound cutting through the tension. For a moment, everything paused. Hope flickered in my chest. Dad?

Dad was home!

My heart leapt.

My father was a detective.

He looked beat, weighed down by the day.

His coat hung off one shoulder, and his shoes left wet tracks on the linoleum. He looked like he’d aged ten years in a single day. Even his badge seemed heavier than usual, pulling him down. He didn’t look up.

“There’s been another murder,” he said, rubbing his brow, voice flat.

He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. He sounded hollow. You could hear the weight of the world in those four words.

“Another one? What happened this time?” Mom’s face fell.

She forgot about the meat for a second, her eyes snapping to Dad. Worry creased her forehead, but it was the kind of worry she reserved for things that threatened her world directly. Not for me. For her world.

“It was a high school girl. Rain washed away all the clues. Just my luck.”

He slumped into a chair, heavy, like he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get up again. His voice was softer now, regret in every word.

“She’s been dead for days, and no one’s come to claim her. Not a soul.”

He looked down at his hands, the lines on his palms deep and tired. He didn’t look up. There was a hollowness in his eyes, the kind that comes from seeing too much.

He sighed. “Such a young life… about the same age as Savannah.”

He said my name gently, almost like he was talking to a ghost. For a second, I thought he might look right at me. But he didn’t.

At the mention of me, Mom’s face twisted with anger. Her jaw clenched.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw clenched. You could almost hear the snap of old wounds reopening. It hurt, every time.

“Why bring her up again? Last time she just had to pick a fight with Caleb—split his head open—and now she’s run off!”

She shook her head, as if she could shake me out of her life for good. The accusation in her tone was sharp enough to draw blood. I just felt sad.

“Mom, I’m fine,” Caleb cut in, eager.

He tried to sound casual, but there was a nervous edge to his voice. He shot Mom a quick, reassuring smile, like he wanted to smooth things over. I could see right through it.

“Can we not do this right now?” Dad said, frowning.

He shot Mom a warning look, his patience worn thin by the day. You could tell he didn’t want to fight—not tonight. The air was brittle.

Mom bristled. “I’m not harping! If it weren’t for her back then, Caleb would never have…”

Her voice grew more and more agitated, and as I looked at her twisted face, I just felt sad.

The old wounds were never allowed to heal. Every family dinner was a minefield. I watched her, wishing I could reach out and tell her I was sorry—again, and again, until she believed me. Sorry. Again and again.

I knew that. She had her reasons for hating me so much.

It was a truth that sat heavy in the room, always just beneath the surface. Even the walls seemed to remember. Always.

Even though my brother had been found, they could never forget—

That shadow never left. It haunted every corner, every family photo. Every birthday. Every birthday cake with an uneven number of candles.

When I was little, I lost my brother. I lost him.

We’d been playing on a busy street. I went to the bathroom. When I came out, he was gone.

The memory played on a loop in my mind—my hand slipping from his, the crowd swallowing him whole. I could still hear the traffic, the distant sirens, the panic rising in my chest. It never stopped.

After that, my childhood was hell. Pure hell.

The house turned cold, even in summer. I learned to tiptoe around their grief. To keep my voice down. To disappear into corners.

“Did you do it on purpose? Huh? Just because I love your brother more? How did I give birth to a monster like you?”

The words were knives, thrown in the heat of grief. I flinched every time. Every time. But they always found their mark.

When Mom heard the news, she beat me and slapped me. She screamed until her voice was raw.

Her hands shook with rage, but her eyes were empty, lost. She needed someone to blame, and I was right there. Always.

An ashtray came flying at my head. It smashed into my forehead.

I remember the sharp crack, the warmth of blood trickling down my face. The world spun, but I stayed silent, too scared to cry. The pain stung, hot and bright.

Bleeding and terrified, I looked up to see Dad sitting there, his eyes red.

He didn’t move, didn’t say a word. He just stared at the floor, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. The silence was suffocating.

“Savvy is Daddy’s little princess!”

His voice echoed in my memory, soft and warm, from a time before everything changed. I used to believe him.

“Who do you love more, Mom or Dad? Daddy loves Savannah the most!”

He’d tease me, ruffling my hair, making me giggle. But those days felt like someone else’s life now. Like a dream I couldn’t get back.

The father who used to call my name so gently now wore a frightening expression. The ashtray only split my forehead open, but what tore in my heart hurt even more. Deeper than any wound.

The silence between us was heavier than any words. I looked for comfort, but found only distance. Nothing but cold.

“Dad… I didn’t mean to.” What scared me most was Dad’s roar—furious, almost crazed.

His voice thundered through the house, rattling the windows. I shrank back, wishing I could disappear. I wanted to be invisible.

“Get out!”

The words were final, slamming the door on any hope I had left. Done.

That night, I stumbled out of the house and cried my heart out at Uncle Jeff’s place.

His porch light was always on, a small beacon in the dark. He wrapped me in a blanket, let me sob into his shoulder, and never once asked me to explain. Safe, for a little while.

Mom’s viciousness, Dad’s rage, and the neighbors’ harsh words about me losing my brother—

They followed me everywhere. Even at school, whispers trailed behind me. I became the girl who lost her brother, the cautionary tale. I couldn’t escape it.

They haunted every moment of my childhood. Every second.

I learned to carry the weight quietly, hoping someday it might get lighter. It never did.

When my brother was finally found, I was overjoyed.

I hugged him so tight I thought I might break him. For a moment, it felt like everything could go back to the way it was. Hope, bright and fragile.

But for some reason, there was something cold and unfamiliar about him…

His eyes didn’t meet mine the same way. He flinched when I touched him. Sometimes, it felt like he was a stranger wearing my brother’s face. I didn’t know him anymore.

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