A Wound that Never Heals

I was a brilliant scientist, but in my family, I was always the shadow to my perfect, manipulative sister, Jetta. On the day I was set to receive the prestigious Harrison Award, my family was only focused on her graduation party, dismissing my life's work as a mere hobby.

That same day, I was brutally attacked in my own lab. The men who did it used a keycard I recognized and sneered that she sent them to "teach me a lesson" and put me in my place.

Bleeding out on the cold floor, I made one last desperate call to my fiancé, Hayden.

"Stop being so dramatic," he snapped before hanging up. "This is Jetta's big day. Don't you dare ruin it for attention."

My mother came downstairs, saw nothing but a mess, and left a voicemail scolding me for being selfish.

My soul ripped free from my body, forced to watch them celebrate. I saw the love in Hayden's eyes-not for me, but for Jetta. To them, my death was just another one of my "attention-seeking stunts."

Now, as a ghost trapped in my own home, I watch them find my body and slowly piece together their neglect from my journal. But they've overlooked the one thing that will expose it all: the memory pendant around my neck, which recorded every horrifying second of the truth.

Chapter 1

My consciousness became a shimmering, weightless thing, suddenly detached from the world I knew. It floated above the cold, unforgiving floor of my cherished laboratory, a silent scream trapped in a perception that no longer had a throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. Not today. My Harrison Award sat on the desk, still in its pristine box, unopened.

The heavy oak door to my basement lab creaked open, shattering the unnatural silence. Footsteps, soft but deliberate, echoed on the flagstone. It was my mother, Beverly, her floral perfume-a scent I'd always associated with distant elegance-preceding her.

"Cheslie? Are you down here? Honestly, what kind of researcher holes up in a literal dungeon on Jetta's big day?" Her voice, as sharp and precise as a surgeon's scalpel, cut through the air.

She didn't wait for an answer. She never did. Her eyes, usually so keen, swept over the room without truly seeing. She didn't notice the overturned chair, the scattered research notes, or the dark, growing stain beneath the workbench. She just saw my lab, a place she considered messy and "unbecoming" for a Crane.

"Still playing the recluse, I see," she muttered, her polished heels clicking impatiently. "Honestly, Jetta was so worried you wouldn't show up. You know how sensitive she is."

Jetta. Always Jetta. Even now, when my entire existence had just been violently extinguished, her name was the first on their lips. My spirit felt a phantom ache, a familiar sting that had nothing to do with the final, crushing impact.

Beverly pulled out her phone, her perfectly manicured thumb flying across the screen. She frowned when her call went straight to voicemail. "See? This is what I mean. Always so dramatic." She pressed a button, then held the phone to her ear. "Cheslie, darling, it's Mom. Where are you? The party starts in an hour, and Grandfather Crane is asking for Jetta. Don't you dare miss it. It's her residency graduation, a monumental day for the family. Try to make an effort, just for once. And please, don't embarrass us by showing up in those… work clothes. We need you to look presentable. For Jetta. Call me back immediately if you get this. And don't even think about trying one of your attention-seeking stunts today. We have enough on our plates."

She ended the call with a huff and tossed her phone onto a stack of my research papers, not bothering to check if it landed safely. Then, with a sigh, she began to poke through my things. She picked up a framed photo of me with my research team, scoffed, and set it down face-first. Her gaze landed on my leather-bound journal, lying open on my desk next to the Harrison Award. Without a second thought, she picked it up.

Her eyes skimmed the page, pausing at a stark number scrawled at the top: "99."

"What is this, some kind of code?" she murmured, her brow furrowed in mild annoyance. "Cheslie, honestly, you and your little secrets." She didn't dwell on it. How could she? She had no way of knowing that "99" wasn't a code, but a tally. Ninety-nine times I had felt their neglect. Ninety-nine moments of being dismissed, overlooked, unloved. Each instance meticulously recorded, a silent testament to a lifetime of yearning for their approval. It was my private ledger of emotional starvation.