I didn't look back at his astonished expression. I simply let the blood drip from my hand, marking my path as I staggered out of the room.
By the time I reached home, I was running on fumes. I pushed the front door open, only to be greeted by the sharp crash of shattering porcelain from the kitchen.
My heart jumped, conditioning overriding exhaustion.
Faith was on the floor, her body twisted in a pathetic struggle as she tried to hoist herself from her overturned wheelchair. Her arms trembled, seemingly too weak to support her own weight.
When she saw me in the doorway, she shrank back like a child caught stealing. Her eyes rimmed red, instant tears pooling in them.
"Zion... I just wanted to make you something to eat..." she stammered, speech slurred and thick. "I'm so useless. I'm just trash!"
Tears mixed with saliva streamed down her face, dripping onto her clothes. She looked the picture of a patient in the final stages of a degenerative disease—helpless, losing control of her faculties, collapsing under the weight of her own existence.
I stared at her. A cold numbness spread through my chest.
Before her "diagnosis," Faith had been a severe germaphobe. The kind of woman who washed her hands twenty times a day and would have a breakdown if a speck of dust landed on her blouse.
Yet for Nathaniel, she had endured this filthy, degrading charade for five whole years.
Five years.
I had been kept in the dark by her masterful performance, living my life as a complete clown. A puppet dancing on strings she held, while she secretly laughed at my desperation.
A dark thought crossed my mind. I wanted to cut open her chest just to see what was inside—warm flesh and blood, or cold iron and stone.
Seeing that I remained silent, Faith drooped her head, shoulders shaking.
"Zion, do you hate me?" she whimpered. "You should. A burden like me... I can't keep dragging you down. You should just go. Let me rot here. Let me die on my own."
She sat amidst broken shards and spilled food, stubbornly gripping the armrests of the wheelchair. The veins in her hands bulged with "effort," yet she somehow couldn't lift herself an inch.
I walked over silently.
I set the wheelchair upright, hooked my arms under hers, and lifted her into the seat. I turned to the sink, wrung out a warm towel, and wiped the tears and saliva from her face and hands.
I had performed this ritual thousands of times over the last five years. Muscle memory now, carved into my bones so deep that my body moved to care for her even while my mind screamed in agony.
Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist. Her gaze locked onto the fresh, jagged wound on my palm.
"How did you get that?" Her voice sharpened. "Who bullied you?"
I stared at the tension in her eyes. It didn't look fake. That was the worst part—she could care for me and destroy me at the same time.
The bitterness in my throat tasted like bile. "Yeah. I was bullied. By someone who looks a lot like you, Sis."
I paused, forcing myself to look straight into her pupils. "It happened at The Starlight Club."
Faith's expression stiffened instantly. The mask slipped, just for a fraction of a second.
I forced a smile. "But I know that wasn't you. My sister is sick. My sister would never lie to me, right?"
Guilt flashed across her face. She averted her gaze, her voice taking on an unnatural pitch. "Of course. Zion is my only family. I would never lie to you."
I swallowed the lump in my throat, fighting back the stinging heat behind my eyes. Before the tears could fall, I turned the wheelchair around and pushed her out of the kitchen.
After I finished cooking and cleaning up the mess, the living room was empty. Faith had retreated to her bedroom.
I walked to her door, intending to tell her dinner was ready, but stopped when I heard her hushed voice on the phone.
"Just listen to me, okay? I've prepared the biggest birthday bash for you. Tomorrow, I'm coming to celebrate it personally."
On the other end, Nathaniel's voice drifted through, dripping with feigned concern. "But Faith... isn't tomorrow Zion's birthday too? If you spend it with me, won't he be angry?"
Faith let out a soft, indulgent laugh. "You silly boy. You're my only precious little brother. Your happiness is the only thing that matters. Zion hasn't celebrated a birthday in five years—he's used to it by now. One more year won't make a difference."
Nathaniel giggled, satisfied. "I knew you loved me best!"
I stood outside the door for a long time, the silence pressing against my eardrums.
Eventually, I took off my apron, draped it over a chair, and turned toward the front door.
When Faith finally emerged from her room, I was already gone.
On the dining table sat a bowl of noodles, cooked soft and mushy so she could swallow them easily, accompanied by a single expensive imported pill.
She knew I had a night shift. She knew I wouldn't be home.
But as she looked at the lonely bowl of noodles, a vague unease pricked at her.
She suddenly remembered the gash on my palm. My abnormally pale complexion, the way my skin seemed translucent under the kitchen lights. My back as I stood at the stove—so thin, so frail, it looked like a bundle of dry firewood held together by cheap fabric.
Panic flared in her chest. For the first time in years, she realized she couldn't remember what I looked like when I was healthy. She couldn't recall the Zion who was once high-spirited, brilliant, and full of life.
