When the earth began to tear itself apart, my only instinct was to grab my sister’s wrist and drag her through the back door of our rental cabin. By the time we stumbled onto the main street, our faces caked in gray plaster and ash, we could hear the screaming. From a distance, I saw my parents. They were on their knees in front of a half-collapsed motel, weeping hysterically into the debris. I took a step toward them, my throat burning with dust, but a firefighter suddenly spun around and shouted into the crowd: “We’ve located two girls trapped underneath! But the structure is failing—we can only pull one out first!” Without a second of hesitation, my mother’s voice pierced the chaos, sharp and desperate: “Save the older one! Please, save my oldest daughter first!” My father clamped his hands onto her shoulders, his voice trembling but terrifyingly resolute. “Yes, save Chelsea first. She’s always been fragile. She won’t last down there.” My hand, which I had half-raised to call out to them, froze in midair. Chelsea bypassed me entirely, running past the barricade toward our parents. “Mom! Dad! I’m here! I’m okay!” My mother looked up, her tear-streaked face lighting up in an instant. She threw her arms around Chelsea, pulling her into a fierce, suffocating embrace. “My sweet girl! Oh thank God, I thought I’d lost you!” My father’s eyes were bloodshot as he checked Chelsea from head to toe, his hands shaking with relief. “Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Let me carry you to the medical tent.” Not once did either of them turn around. I stood a dozen yards behind them, barefoot, covered in grime and blood, looking like a ghost they had already forgotten to mourn. It was the firefighter who finally noticed me. He walked over, his eyes filled with professional concern. “Hey, sweetie. Where’s your family?” I watched the three of them hold each other, their tears blending into a single, cohesive unit of grief and relief. I let out a quiet, dry laugh. “I don’t have family here,” I said softly. “I came alone.” 1 “Doctor, please, you have to look at my oldest daughter first! She scratched her arm on some falling gravel!” Inside the crowded triage tent, my mother’s frantic voice drowned out the low groans of the actually injured. She gripped Chelsea’s wrist, gently but firmly pushing her ahead of the line to the front desk. Chelsea was wearing a clean windbreaker. Aside from a light dusting of ash on her hem, the only mark on her entire body was a faint pink scratch, barely an inch long, on her left forearm. It wasn’t even bleeding. The exhausted ER physician looked up, his eyes dark with fatigue. “Ma’am, grab a sterile wipe from the side station and clean it. We need to keep this space clear for critical patients.” “How can you say that?” My father stepped in, his jaw set in disapproval. “With all the bacteria in these ruins? What if she contracts tetanus? Chelsea has a delicate immune system. You can’t just dismiss her like this.” Chelsea shrank slightly behind my father’s shoulder, tugging at his sleeve. “Dad, really, I’m fine. I just nicked the doorframe when we ran out.” “You’re in shock, sweetheart,” my mother insisted, her hand stroking Chelsea’s hair. She dug into her purse, pulled out an unopened bottle of spring water, and pressed it into her hands. “Drink some water. Calm your nerves. When I saw that building go down, my heart nearly stopped.” I was sitting on a cheap plastic stool less than six feet away. Blood was slowly dripping from my right foot, pooling on the linoleum floor. In our frantic escape, I had lost one of my slides. I had run over shattered glass, jagged asphalt, and sharp gravel, leaving a deep, ragged gash stretching across the entire arch of my foot. The pale flesh was torn wide open, caked with black dirt and grit. A young nurse walked over with a sterile prep kit and let out a sharp intake of breath when she saw my foot. “Oh, honey. That’s going to need stitches. Is your family here? Someone needs to hold your leg still. We’re short on local anesthetic, so this is going to hurt.” I kept my eyes on the kidney dish filled with iodine-stained water. “No,” I said, my voice flat. “I can hold myself still.” The nurse hesitated, glancing over at the trio standing just a few feet away, still fussing over Chelsea’s microscopic scratch. “Aren’t those your parents? You look just like them.” “No,” I repeated, lifting my bloody leg onto the metal rest. “Please, just stitch it. I’d like to get this over with.” She didn’t press further. She tore open the gauze and began cleaning the wound. A sharp, white-hot agony shot straight up my leg and settled in my skull. I bit down on my lower lip, keeping my eyes fixed on a random spot on the canvas ceiling, refusing to make a sound. This wasn’t the first time. When I was eight, a blizzard hit Seattle overnight. Chelsea and I both woke up with raging, triple-digit fevers. The heater in our old station wagon was broken, and the roads were thick with black ice. My father stood in the driveway for a long time, trying to clear the windshield, while my mother wrapped Chelsea in three layers of heavy blankets. She turned to me, her voice hurried but sweet. “Zoe, be a good girl and stay tucked in bed. Sweat it out. Your sister’s chest is weak; if her fever stays this high, she’ll get pneumonia. We have to take her to the clinic first.” That night, I lay alone in a freezing bedroom, shivering until the sun came up. By the time they returned with a medicated, sleeping Chelsea, I had slipped into delirium. I spent the next week in the pediatric ward on an IV drip. They didn’t apologize; they only complained that I must have kicked my blankets off during the night and made myself sicker. They were still the same. The nurse’s needle pierced my flesh, pulling the thick black thread through. Five stitches in total. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead, and I used a rough paper towel to wipe it away. By the time I hopped out of the tent on one foot, clutching my prescription for antibiotics, the three of them were already walking out. My father had his arm gently wrapped around Chelsea’s shoulders, while my mother was still dabbling an alcohol swab over a scratch that had already faded to nothing. I followed them, keeping a distance of fifteen yards, limping heavily on my left heel. “The evacuation buses are lined up down the street,” my father said, pointing toward the flashing lights at the intersection. “We’ll take one back to the city and check into a hotel.” Chelsea nodded, then paused as if remembering something. She turned around. “Where’s Zoe? It was so chaotic earlier, I didn’t see where she went.” My mother followed her gaze, her eyes finally landing on me. I was standing under the yellow hum of a streetlamp, one foot bare and wrapped in bulky white gauze, my jeans stained with dried blood. Her brow immediately furrowed. “Zoe, where on earth have you been?” she snapped. “Everyone is trying to evacuate, and you’re wandering off making trouble. You even managed to lose a shoe.” My father’s face hardened as he walked over, looking down at me. “Your sister is traumatized enough as it is. The last thing she needs is to worry about you. Get a move on. What are you lingering for?” 2 A massive crowd had gathered in front of the evacuation buses. People were fleeing the quake zone in droves, and the vehicles were filling up fast. When we finally reached the boarding steps, the driver held up a hand. “Only three seats left on this one. Whoever takes the last spot will have to stand in the aisle.” My father glanced at Chelsea’s pale face. “Chelsea is still shaken up. She absolutely has to sit.” My mother chimed in immediately, her tone dripping with natural self-interest. “And my motion sickness is acting up. I’ll need a seat too. Robert, your lower back has been terrible lately—you can’t stand for a three-hour drive down these mountain roads.” Three pairs of eyes turned slowly toward me. I looked down at my right foot, the gauze already showing a faint, damp spot of fresh blood. “Zoe,” my mother said, her voice dropping into that familiar, soothing tone she used when she wanted me to yield. “You’re young and healthy. Standing for a bit won’t hurt you. Your sister had a terrible scare today. Let her have the seat.” My father nudged me toward the steps. “Get on. There’s a line behind us, don’t hold everyone up.” Chelsea reached out, lightly tugging my sleeve, her eyes shining with performative guilt. “Zoe, you can have my seat. Really, I think I can manage.” My mother immediately pulled her back. “Manage what? Your constitution is so delicate, you’ll be sick for a week if you stand in a moving bus for hours. Zoe is tough. She’ll be fine.” I looked at them, my throat dry, and said nothing. Clinging to the metal handrail, I dragged my stitched-up foot up the high steps and worked my way to the very back of the crowded aisle. I reached up and gripped the overhead strap. The bus lurched forward, roaring to life. The mountain roads were winding and riddled with potholes from the tremor. Every bounce of the heavy vehicle sent a violent shudder through my frame. I had to shift all my weight onto my left leg, keeping my right foot hovering just above the rubber floorboards. But every sudden brake forced my injured foot to slam down, sending a white-hot spike of agony straight to my chest. Through the dirty glass of the bus window, I could see the reflection of the front seats. My mother was unwrapping a snack and feeding it to Chelsea. My father had taken off his jacket, gently draping it over Chelsea’s legs to keep her warm. They were talking in low, soothing murmurs, completely wrapped up in their own little world. Not once did either of them look back. No one asked why there was blood on my jeans. During my junior year of high school, I won first place in a prestigious national physics competition. The award ceremony was held in Chicago, and the school required at least one parent to attend. I had placed the invitation on the kitchen island two weeks in advance. My mother had smiled and promised, “Of course we’ll go. We can make a weekend of it, buy you a nice dress as a reward.” But on the morning of our flight, Chelsea woke up claiming she felt dizzy. It was a mild cold, nothing more. Yet my mother instantly panicked, dropping everything to fetch the thermometer and calling my father home from work. I stood by the front door, my backpack on, watching them run around. “Mom, the flight is in two hours. We need to leave for the airport,” I whispered. My mother, pouring hot water into a mug, didn’t even look at me. “Zoe, your sister is sick. I can’t leave her like this. You’ll have to go alone.” “But the school said I need a parent’s signature on the registry.” “Just explain it to your advisor. Tell them there was a family emergency. You’ve always been independent, Zoe. You can handle a little thing like this.” That afternoon, I was the only student on that massive Chicago stage without a family member in the audience. When they handed me the heavy glass trophy, the flashing lights of the cameras felt blinding, almost mocking. When I finally took the train back home, carrying my trophy in a paper bag, I walked into the house to hear laughter spilling out from the living room. The three of them were curled up on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching a newly released comedy. The bus took a sharp, violent turn. My grip slipped, and my right foot crashed flat against the floorboards. The sudden pressure tore the fresh stitches. The pain was so intense that my vision went black for a second, a cold sweat drenching my collar. I leaned heavily against the back of a seat, panting quietly, until the world stopped spinning. In my pocket, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out with one hand. It was an email from the international admissions office at Stanford. “Dear Zoe Larson,” “We are pleased to inform you that your application for the International Exchange Program has passed the final review. Please log into the portal within three days to confirm your intent.” “Once confirmed, we will dispatch your visa documents and official enrollment packet.” I stared at the glowing text. I had applied in secret three months ago. A fully funded, two-year exchange program with a stipend that covered housing and living expenses. It was a clean break. A way out. In the front of the bus, Chelsea seemed to sense something. She turned her head back. “Zoe? Are you okay? That turn was really sharp.” My mother’s voice cut in before I could answer. “She’s fine, Chelsea. She’s holding the rail. Stop turning around, you’ll give yourself motion sickness. Close your eyes and rest.” I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket. “I’m fine,” I called back, offering Chelsea a small, vacant smile. “Go to sleep. Don’t worry about me.” 3 The bus dropped us off in downtown Portland, right outside an upscale restaurant. My father had booked a private dining room hours in advance, claiming we needed to celebrate Chelsea’s “safe return” and shake off the bad luck of the earthquake. I trailed behind them, dragging my bleeding foot, moving as slowly as a shadow. Inside the private room, several of our relatives were already waiting. They had heard about our close call and had rushed over to see us. “Oh, Chelsea, look at you! You poor thing, you’re white as a sheet,” Aunt Diane cried, immediately grabbing Chelsea’s hands. “I know,” my mother sighed, pulling out a chair for Chelsea. “She’s always been so sensitive. When that building started crumbling, I thought my heart would stop. It’s a miracle she’s safe.” The relatives chimed in, praising my parents for their devotion. When I finally pushed the door open and limped into the room, the chatter died down for a brief second. “Oh, Zoe’s back too,” Uncle Greg said, his eyes falling on my tattered jeans. “What happened to your leg? That’s a lot of blood.” My father, who was busy scanning the wine list, didn’t look up. “She tripped. You know how she is, never looks where she’s going. Don’t worry about it, let’s order some food.” I quietly took the empty seat at the end of the table. The waiters began bringing out dishes, every single one of them Chelsea’s favorites: honey-glazed salmon, sweet teriyaki ribs, and candied pecans over salad. My mother used the serving chopsticks to place the prime cut of the salmon onto Chelsea’s plate. “Eat up, sweetie. You need the protein to recover.” My father spent five minutes peeling a plate of spot prawns and placing them right by Chelsea’s hand. “Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad,” Chelsea said sweet-temperedly. Then she turned to look at me. “Zoe, you should eat some of these ribs. They’re really good.” She used her clean chopsticks to drop a heavily glazed rib onto my plate. “She has hands, Chelsea. She can feed herself,” my mother said, casting a dry look in my direction. “Your wrist is sore, and you’re still trying to serve her. Have some sense, Zoe.” I stared at the rib sitting on my plate. I couldn’t eat sweet meats. When I was twelve, I had eaten a plate of sweet-glazed pork at a family gathering and ended up in the emergency room with severe gastroenteritis. Since then, the mere smell of sugar-heavy meats made my stomach turn. But in this family, my medical history didn’t matter. Chelsea liked sweet things, so every family dinner was tailored to her palate. “I’m not hungry,” I said. I picked up my chopsticks, lifted the rib, and placed it onto the discard plate in the center of the table. My father slammed his water glass down, his face instantly darkening. “Zoe, what is your problem?” “Today is a celebration of your sister’s safety. Everyone is happy, and you’re sitting there pulling a face. For whose benefit?” “We let your attitude slide at home, but in front of your family? Have some respect.” The room temperature seemed to drop to freezing. The relatives glanced at each other, clearing their throats. “Oh, Robert, leave the girl be,” Aunt Diane offered half-heartedly. “She just went through an earthquake. She’s probably just tired.” “Zoe’s always been quiet,” Uncle Greg muttered. I sat there, listening to them define me. “Sullen. Difficult. Strange.” These were the labels they had pasted onto me years ago, labels I would never be allowed to tear off. In my pocket, my phone buzzed again. It was a system notification from the Stanford portal, reminding me that I had forty-eight hours left to accept the offer. I opened the browser under the table and typed in my credentials. “Do you accept the terms of the International Exchange Program? Once confirmed, this action cannot be undone.” The confirmation box hovered on my screen. My thumb hovered over the green button. “Zoe.” My mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. She reached into her designer bag and tossed a silver credit card onto the table. “The earthquake was a wake-up call. Your father and I decided we’re going to enroll Chelsea in a private trauma therapy program once we get back.” “It’s quite expensive, so we’re going to suspend your college prep classes for next semester. Your grades are stable anyway; you can just study on your own.” She said it so casually, as if she were telling me she had changed the brand of milk in the fridge. “Take the card tomorrow. Withdraw some cash and go to the mall to buy your sister a few new outfits. The clothes she had packed got ruined in the dust.” I stared at the silver card. This was my place in their world. Whenever they needed to balance the scales, I was the one who was trimmed, sacrificed, and used as a tool to cushion Chelsea’s life. I exhaled slowly. Under the table, my thumb pressed down firmly on the screen. “Confirm.” “Selection saved. Thank you.” The text flashed green and vanished. I locked the phone and slid it into my pocket, then reached out and took the credit card. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” My mother’s face softened slightly at my compliance. “Good. And make sure you pack up the leftovers tonight. Don’t let them go to waste.” 4 By our third day back in Seattle, our living room was littered with high-end shopping bags. They were filled with the designer pieces and premium supplements I had bought for Chelsea the day before, just as my mother had instructed. Chelsea sat on the sofa, happily unboxing a pair of cream-colored leather boots. “These are gorgeous. I’ve wanted them for months.” She held them against her calves, beaming. “As long as you like them, sweetheart,” my mother said, setting down a plate of sliced fruit with an affectionate smile. “You can wear them when you return to classes next week.” I stood in the hallway leading to the balcony, a broom in my hand. My right foot still throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, but I could finally walk without a severe limp. In this house, the rule was simple: as long as I was breathing and upright, the chores were my responsibility. “Zoe, make sure you water the ferns on the balcony. Don’t forget,” my mother called out, not bothering to turn around. I didn’t answer. I simply swept the dust into the pan and went about my work. Tomorrow was Monday. Chelsea had been granted a week-long medical leave from her college courses on her therapist’s recommendation. And I had a one-way ticket to San Francisco booked for tomorrow afternoon. The express envelope containing my exchange student visa and enrollment documents had arrived yesterday morning. While they were watching television in the living room, I had slipped the papers into the deepest compartment of my backpack. My belongings were meager. A few basic changes of clothes, three of my favorite academic textbooks, and a three-year-old laptop. Everything I owned fit into a single carry-on suitcase. After dinner, my father walked out of his study, holding three premium tickets. “There’s a symphony performance at the Benaroya Hall tomorrow night. The guest conductor is Chelsea’s favorite.” “I managed to get three front-row seats. Let’s go as a family and help Chelsea unwind.” Chelsea squealed with delight, jumping up to hug him. “Are you serious? Thank you, Dad!” She clung to his arm, laughing, while my mother beamed beside them. “Perfect. You can wear that new cream trench coat Zoe bought you. You’ll look beautiful.” Not once did they mention why there were only three tickets. Perhaps, in their minds, it was simply understood that I didn’t belong in their warm, expensive family portraits. “Zoe.” My father finally turned his head toward the kitchen, where I was standing by the sink. “We’ll be eating out tomorrow night. Just boil some noodles for yourself.” “And remember to hang the laundry. Your sister’s cashmere sweater is in the hamper—do not put it in the machine. Hand-wash it.” I looked at the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink. “Okay,” I said, my voice incredibly calm. “I will.” The next day, the autumn sun was exceptionally bright. My parents and Chelsea left the house early in the afternoon, planning to get Chelsea’s hair styled downtown before heading to a high-end French bistro before the concert. The heavy front door clicked shut, and a profound, heavy silence settled over the house. I washed the last plate, dried my hands, and walked back to my small bedroom. I pulled my old black suitcase from under the bed. There was very little of me left in this room. I didn’t take a single thing they had ever bought me. I even left my phone—the lagging, hand-me-down device my father had passed down to me years ago. I spent ten minutes performing a factory reset, wiping every photo, text, and contact from its memory, and placed it precisely in the center of my desk. Next to it, I laid my house key. I took one last look at the room I had occupied for nearly a decade. There was no lingering attachment. No grief. Only a deep, physical sense of relief, like a heavy weight finally being lifted from my chest. I dragged my suitcase to the foyer, slipped into a pair of brand-new sneakers I had bought with my own savings, and walked out into the sunlight. By 3:00 PM, I was sitting at the gate of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. The intercom was broadcasting boarding calls for my flight. I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent and walked down the jet bridge, feeling the cool draft of the tarmac. Through the cabin window, I watched the Seattle skyline shrink into a series of gray points before being swallowed by the clouds. I pulled out my new phone, slipped in the prepaid SIM card I had purchased the day before, and powered it on. My old number was already deactivated. Every contact associated with the Larson family was gone, wiped clean along with the old phone sitting on my empty desk. I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes. “Miss, please fasten your seatbelt. We’re preparing for takeoff,” the flight attendant said, her voice warm and pleasant. I opened my eyes and smiled at her. “Of course. Thank you.”
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “535068”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply