My mother was a “butterfly baby.” The slightest touch could tear her skin, leaving painful blisters and weeping sores. To protect her, my father lined our entire house in expensive silk. Nothing sharp was allowed inside. I loved painting, but brushes were banned. I loved music, but violins were forbidden. Every dream I ever had was snuffed out before it could even begin, all because of my mother’s illness. My father always looked at me with that tired, pleading expression. “Your mother is sick, Mia. You have to be patient with her.” But back then, I was only four years old. I remember the day I came home from school. The moment I walked through the door, my mother slapped me across the face. Hard. For no reason at all. Before I could even cry, everyone rushed to her side. My father pointed an accusing finger at my face. “Look what you did to your mother’s hand! Why are you always so selfish?” He slapped my other cheek, then scooped up my mother—whose fingers were already bleeding—and ran out of the house to the hospital. I was thrown against the coffee table. Suddenly, my own skin began to split, weeping blood just like hers. And in that terrifying moment, the doctor’s words from my physical exam the previous year finally clicked: “She carries the genetic markers for EB. It could activate at any time.” My vision began to fade. Blood pooled on the floor around me. … “Mia! What did you do to upset your mother this time?!” My father came rushing down the stairs, catching the tail end of my mother’s hand swinging down to strike me again. He didn’t care about the red, swollen mark burning on my cheek. There was no questioning, no benefit of the doubt—only accusation, disappointment, and pure exhaustion in his eyes. He shoved me aside roughly to get to her. Holding her hand with delicate care, he stared at the tiny tears forming in her fragile skin, his eyes wide with a desperate, all-consuming devotion. Then he turned back to me, his gaze freezing cold. He grabbed a ceramic mug from the counter and hurled it at my feet. It shattered, pieces flying. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he roared. “Do not upset your mother! Does it just go in one ear and out the other?” “Her condition is fragile! Look at her hand—it’s tearing! Is your face made of stone or something?” I lay on the floor, a strange, agonizing pain blooming deep inside my bones. It was a sensation I had never felt before, accompanied by a faint, horrifying crackling sound beneath my skin. I stared at him, my eyes wide with disbelief. I was the one who had just been struck. My mother clung to his chest, her eyes locked onto me. There was a dark, unreadable intensity in her gaze. “She screamed at me the minute she walked in!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “Tom, I don’t want her here! Send her away! Just get her out of my sight!” She dissolved into hysterical screams, hurling venomous words at me. The sheer hatred in her eyes made it feel as though we weren’t mother and daughter at all, but mortal enemies. I lay on the cold floor. Even though she had never given me a single warm look in my entire life, my heart felt like it was physically bleeding. My father looked at her bleeding palms, watching her lose control, and shook his head at me in utter disgust. “I am so disappointed in you, Mia.” But when he looked back down at her, his voice instantly softened into a gentle whisper. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll send her away tonight. I promise you’ll never have to look at her again.” He lifted her gently in his arms and hurried out the door. My grandparents followed close behind, passing by me without casting a single glance in my direction. And my mother, looking over his shoulder at me, seemed to let out a long, quiet sigh of relief. I lay collapsed on the floor, the pain rising like a tidal wave, freezing my limbs. “Dad… Dad…” I reached out a trembling hand toward the empty doorway, my voice barely a cracked whisper. As I raised my arm, I finally realized where that strange, cracking sound was coming from. I watched in horror as the skin on my hand split open, raw and red. Terror surged through my veins. The skin on my back, where I had slammed hard against the floor, was already soaked through with warm, wet blood. The metallic smell of blood filled my nose. I dragged my heavy body toward the front door, crying out with what little strength I had left. “Help… please… someone help me…” Tears spilled over my cheeks, and the moment the salt touched my fragile skin, it split open instantly. I left a thick, smeared trail of red behind me as I crawled. But just a few feet from the door, my body gave up. As I lay there in the quiet, my mind drifted back through the years, playing memories of this house like a broken reel. For as long as I could remember, I knew my mother was different. Not just because of her fragile skin, but because… Other mothers loved their children. Mine hated me. She saw me as a threat, a stain on her perfect world. When I was six, I showed an incredible talent for painting. The dean of a prestigious art academy had even offered to take me on as his personal student. I had run home, clutching the professional brushes he had gifted me, only for my mother to snatch them and throw them to the floor. “What are you trying to do?!” she had screamed, backing away. “Are you trying to kill me? If I die, then everyone will look at you, is that what you want?!” The stiff bristles had grazed her hand, leaving tiny red scratches. I had stood there, frozen in fear, as my father rushed home to bandage her. He looked down at me and sighed. “Mia, your mother can’t have things like this in the house. No more painting. It ends today.” My eyes had filled with tears, but my tears never mattered. And just like that, my talent was buried when I was only six years old. The sudden buzzing of my phone on the table pulled me back from the edge of consciousness. I tried to crawl toward it, but my body felt glued to the floor by my own drying blood. The caller didn’t have much patience. After five short rings, the line went dead. I let my head fall back, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. The tears wouldn’t stop. My mind kept drifting. I was ten when a music teacher at an after-school program discovered I had a perfect ear. While other kids struggled to read sheet music, I could recreate any melody after hearing it just once. Desperate for a scrap of approval, I had run to my father. “I want to learn the piano. I know Mom can’t touch anything sharp or heavy, but we can put it in my room, okay?” My father hesitated, looking like he might actually say yes. But then, my mother’s voice shrieked from the top of the stairs. “Absolutely not!” I looked up, terrified by the sheer venom on her face. She stared down at me, suddenly hitting herself, muttering things under her breath that I couldn’t make out. Her fragile skin quickly bruised and split under her own blows, oozing blood. For the second time in my life, I was paralyzed with fear. My father rushed up the stairs, grabbing her wrists to stop her from hurting herself. “Okay, okay! No piano! She won’t learn!” I turned around and caught the faint, triumphant smirk spreading across my mother’s face. My heart sank into a dark, bottomless pit. After my father finished bandaging her, I went back to my room. I sat by the window, staring at an old photograph of my mother from before I was born. She looked so different then. Suddenly, the door was kicked open, slamming hard against the wall. My heart leaped into my throat. “Why do you want to learn the piano?” she whispered, her face twisted in a way that made my skin crawl. She grabbed my shoulders, her sharp fingernails digging deep into my skin. The pain was sharp and blinding. “If you play the piano, you think everyone will love you more than me, don’t you?!” At ten years old, I didn’t understand what she meant. I only knew that I loved music, that my shoulders ached, and that I would never be allowed to play. When I didn’t answer, she pulled her hands back, her fingers trembling as if she were trying to hold herself back. “You are not allowed to learn,” she spat. “In this house, I come first. Always. If you don’t like it, you can pack your things and get out. Do you hear me?” I nodded numbly, my knees shaking. She sneered and walked out. I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air as the tears finally spilled over. My second dream was dead. The landline answering machine on the wall beeped, snapping me back to the cold reality of the floor. My father’s tired, disappointed voice filled the quiet room. “Mia, I want you to use tonight to think about what you’ve done. Your mother is in the ER. The doctors almost couldn’t save her hand. I’ve told you a thousand times not to upset her, but it’s like you don’t care at all.” “She went through hell giving birth to you, and her condition has only gotten worse because of it. You should be grateful. Instead, you constantly pick fights with her. And screaming at her today? I am truly disappointed in you, Mia.” The machine beeped again, ending the call. I wanted so badly to call him back. I wanted to beg him to come home and look at the girl lying in a pool of her own blood. But I couldn’t move. My eyes grew heavy, the light fading. I breathed slowly, each breath feeling like heavy stones pressing down on my chest. “I didn’t scream at her, Dad. I didn’t do anything… but you never believed me.” A final tear slipped from the corner of my eye. When I was thirteen, my mother did something completely unexpected: she volunteered to attend my parent-teacher conference. But halfway through, as we sat in the classroom, she suddenly snapped. She stood up and began screaming at my teacher. “Did she pay you off? How could a stupid, mediocre girl like her get the third-highest grade in the class?!” “She cheated, didn’t she? I knew it!” She dragged me out of my seat, pulling me into the hallway, and slapped me hard. “You liar! You cheat! I’ll teach you some respect!” Teachers, parents, and students all stared in horror. My teacher tried to intervene, but the second she touched my mother’s arm, she gasped in shock. “Oh my god! Your skin!” My classmates looked at us like we were monsters. Eventually, my father arrived, scooping up my bleeding, exhausted mother to rush her to the hospital. He left me standing there alone in the hallway, forced to endure the whispers and dirty looks of everyone around me. From that day on, I didn’t have a single friend. Wherever I went, the whispers followed. “Look, it’s the freak girl. Where’s your psycho mom? Tell her to show us her melting skin again! Haha!” Teenagers could be incredibly cruel. And so, I became quieter, shrinking into the background, trying to disappear. The memory faded. The ceiling light grew dimmer and dimmer. As the answering machine beeped one last time, my eyes closed, and I slid into the quiet, heavy dark. People always say that there is nothing after death. No soul, no consciousness. Just empty nothingness. But I wanted to scream at them. “You’re wrong. There is a soul.” I was floating in the air, looking down at my own body lying in a pool of blood. I looked so small, so fragile, like a leaf that a strong gust of wind could blow away. It was pathetic. My chest tightened. I tried to drift closer to my body, but a sudden, violent pull yanked my consciousness away. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a hospital room. My mother’s hands were freshly bandaged. She sat on the bed, her head bowed. My father stood by the window, staring at his phone after another unanswered call, his brow furrowed. My grandmother stood nearby. “The girl still isn’t answering?” My father gruted, a strange wave of anxiety washing over him. He moved toward the door, but my grandmother stopped him. “She did the exact same thing in middle school. Running away for attention. She’s so incredibly selfish.” My father paused, nodding slowly as if convincing himself. He stepped back into the room. I watched them, a bitter taste in my mouth. “Dad, I’m never going to answer your calls again. If you knew, would you actually care?” My mother spoke up, her voice eerily calm. “Tom, when are you sending her away?” My father hesitated. “Rose…” “You don’t want to do it, do you?” She sat up straight, her face twisting. “I said get her out of here! I don’t want to see her!” My grandmother and father jumped, rushing to soothe her. “Okay, okay! I’ll arrange it right now. We’ll send her to a school in Chicago, okay? Immediately!” “Calm down, sweetheart. Your bandages are going to tear.” My mother took deep, ragged breaths, her eyes wide and hostile. When I was little, I never understood why she hated me so much. Only as I grew older did I realize she hated how much attention my father and grandparents paid to me. She hated my very existence. In this house, she had to be the only princess. I looked down at my translucent hands. I wanted to scream, “You got what you wanted! I’m gone! Are you happy now?” But no sound came out. The door opened, and the doctor walked in, looking over a clipboard with a grim expression. The mood in the room instantly plummeted. My father stepped forward. “Is everything alright?” “Her immune system is weakening,” the doctor said quietly. “Her skin condition is only going to get more severe. I strongly advise you to avoid any further stress. Every hard surface in your home needs to be padded or replaced.” My father’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I understand.” But that prognosis only solidified his decision to send me away. The moment the doctor left, he called his assistant, Franklin. “Find a boarding school in Chicago. I don’t care how much it costs. Get Mia’s transcripts and transfer papers processed immediately.” He hung up and looked at my quiet mother, gently taking her into his arms. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s going to be okay. I’m sending her away. You’ll never have to see her again.” My mother blinked, giving a faint, quiet nod. A cold, familiar ache spread through my chest. “You won’t have to fight for his love anymore, Mom. You won. I’m out of your way.” That night, my grandparents stayed in the adjoining room. My father turned off the main lights and sat beside my mother’s bed. The only light in the dark room came from the pale glow of his phone. I had tried to leave the hospital, but every time I got more than thirty feet away from them, an invisible force snapped me back. I sighed, letting out a dry, hollow laugh. If my mother knew my ghost was haunting them, she would probably hate me even more. My father stared at the screen, looking at the list of missed calls to my number. A sudden, irrational panic seemed to grip him. He opened our chat history. [Mia, your mother’s condition is getting worse. I’ve decided to send you to a boarding school in Chicago. Pack your bags tonight. Franklin will pick you up first thing in the morning.] [Try to be mature about this.] I stood beside him, my throat tight. “Be mature.” I had heard those words my entire life. To my father, my mother was the center of the universe. Even if he found out I was dead, he would probably just sigh and move on. Maybe he’d even be relieved that the source of his wife’s misery was finally gone. My father stared at the phone. Five minutes passed, and when there was still no reply, he let out a frustrated breath. His brow furrowed. Growing increasingly uneasy, he dialed Franklin again. “Go to the house now. Check on…” Before he could finish the sentence, my mother sat up in bed, gasping in terror. Startled, my father accidentally hit the end call button. On the other end, Franklin looked at his phone, confused by the abrupt disconnect, assuming his boss had dialed by mistake. “Mia!” my mother shrieked, her eyes wild with panic. My father quickly turned on the lamp, pulling her into his arms. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Mia is gone. I sent her away.” My mother slowly calmed down. “Don’t let her come back. I don’t want to see her.” “I won’t,” my father promised. “I won’t let her set foot in New York again.” I looked down, my translucent body curling in on itself. For seventeen years, my father had believed everything she said without question. When I was four, she claimed I had tried to poke her with a cake fork. From then on, I was never allowed to have a birthday party. When I was eight, she complained that my hair was too thick and coarse and might scratch her. My father cut my hair into a boy’s buzz cut and never let me grow it out. The memories flashed through my mind, cold and biting. The next morning, my father returned to the room with her prescription medication. Just as he pushed the door open, his phone rang. Seeing Franklin’s name on the screen, he frowned. “Franklin? Did you pick up Mia? Once she’s settled in Chicago, I want you to…” “Sir!” Franklin’s voice was shaking, high and terrified. My father’s heart skipped a beat. His grip on the phone tightened. “What is it?” “You… you need to come home right now,” Franklin choked out, his voice cracking with horror. “Mia… she’s dead. She’s dead on the living room floor.”
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