I don’t move from my spot. Can’t. Why would I? There’s nothing else to do. I just sit there, staring at the black screen, willing time to pass.
It’s 1 October. Ella would have turned twenty-six today. Or should’ve.
We would’ve been celebrating her birthday. We would’ve bought two muffins from the grocery store and lit a single candle. Megan, my sister’s best friend, would have joined us, the life of the party as always. She would have made us mocktails and pretended she was tipsy, and then all hell would have broken loose once Uno was brought out. My sister would have beamed, feeling truly alive for a couple hours before she crashed and slept until the afternoon.
Maybe Ella would have started crying, thinking about all the friends we lost after my parents ruined our lives. Then Megan would have cried because she’s the only person who stuck around.
I’d have watched them both, thinking that the bigger someone is, the faster they burn. And we fell hard—like Icarus soaring with false wings, guaranteed to meet our demise.
But we didn’t know any better. We were just children living under our parents’ roof. Ella, with her rose-colored glasses; me, with the beast beating in my chest, too loud to hear anything else.
If Mom were still around, she’d spend the stolen money on a party she’dinsistElla have to show the rest of high society that we Eldriths have still got it: the diamonds, the fountains of cash, the divine blood.
Yet here we are. My parents are in orange jumpsuits. My sister gray and blue. And me…? I’m whatever’s left over.
The broken computer chair groans beneath my weight as I rise to my feet, lost to the numbness that’s sunk into my bones. I don’t bother turning the light on—or lifting my feet over the laundry on the floor to get to the kitchen.
Yellow light from the streetlamps outside spills into the apartment, illuminating the piles of dishes and empty takeout bags that I’m going to clean next week.
I’ve said“next week” for eleven months now.
One more week won’t hurt. The only thing that matters is in Ella’s room.
It’s all the same. Nothing ever changes. There’s never anything new—no new people, no new surroundings, no new adventures. Monotony alone might kill me.
My phone chimes in my pocket. I know who it is without looking.
Megan: You should ask your boss if you can finish early today.
Guilt churns in my stomach. Ella wouldn’t be happy to hear I’ve lied to Megan. I told her I’ve been scheduled for the night shift because I can’t bring myself to see her—can’t face letting her bear witness to the physical manifestation of all my failures.
It’s not like she genuinely cares anyway. She only checks in because she promised Ella she would look out for me after she died.
A second message pops up.
Megan: And whatever you do, DON’T go looking online for shit that will only hurt your feelings.
It’s too late for that.
Rage trickles into my veins at the memory. Poor impulse control has me pulling up the news article from this morning again. Those vultures will feast on anything. They don’t give a shit about who they hurt.
Sources confirm that Eldrith Corp’s incarcerated CEO, Charles Eldrith, and his wife, also incarcerated, Singaporean heiress, Vivianna Eldrith, were not granted permission to visit their daughter’s graveon her birthday, following a decision made by Judge Clarke yesterday morning.
I slam my phone down.
Ella doesn’t have a fucking grave.
If they called to check in—or even spent two minutes pretending to care—they’d know she never wanted one. Better yet, they could put their pathetic fucking brain cells to good use and figure out that none of us are in the financial position to bury my goddamn sister in the dirt.
They don’t care about us. They never fucking did.
My parents only knew how to solve a problem by throwing stolen money at it. Now they have none, and it’s not like a couple hundred dollars would bring her back. But… I guess they weren’t entirely wrong. There is a family grave on our land.
Ella’s just not in it.
My eyes dart to the urn on the shelf. I couldn’t bury her in the crypt with the rest of our fucked-up family, and it’s not like I have the finances to buy a separate funeral plot. No person should be bound to that hellhole anyway. A couple of decades was bad enough—an eternity would feel like being in the flaming pit.
I snatch the wine bottle off the counter and bring it to my lips, chugging the cheap liquid until only a couple sips remain. Beads of red drip from the corners of my lips onto my food-stained robe.
