I was born with a heart condition. Doctors said I wouldn’t live past eighteen. When I was ten, my parents brought home a blind child, telling me she was my twin sister, Iris. My family doted on me relentlessly, yet they were always distant and cold towards Iris. Everyone whispered that Iris was here to give me her heart. I tried desperately to be good to this sister who looked exactly like me, hoping to soothe the guilt gnawing at my conscience. Finally, my eighteenth birthday arrived. I lay on the operating table. But what they took wasn’t my heart. It was my corneas. I died. Iris gained sight. The moment the heart rate monitor shrieked, I thought my life was over. My mind flashed through countless memories, finally settling on the first time I pulled open the door and saw Iris. The day Iris arrived, I was sipping my imported medication, curled up on the huge cashmere sofa in the living room. The door opened, letting in a whiff of dusty countryside air. She stood at the entrance. Dark and thin, like a wild weed. Her clothes were old, and she clutched a worn cloth bag in her hand. Her eyes were a hazy gray, like mine, yet completely different. “This is your sister, Iris.” Mom said, her voice flat, not reaching out to her. Iris said nothing, her head bowed. I quickly realized Mom didn’t seem to like this sister. Looking at this child, who was practically my mirror image, a strange tightness gripped my chest. From that day on, I gave her everything I had. New dresses, imported chocolates, my favorite plush bunny. She got the small, north-facing room, while I had the larger one. Everyone in the family clustered around me, laughing and talking. At dinner, they always made sure the best portions were on my plate. When it came to Iris, Mom would just say, “She can serve herself.” Her tone was so flat, so indifferent. I knew they loved me. It was because of my heart condition. Not living past eighteen was my biggest secret. When I was ten, my parents brought Iris home, claiming she was my twin sister, and she couldn’t see. They told me Iris was a gift from above. Everyone quietly informed me that Iris existed so I could live. I believed them. So I tried my hardest to be good to Iris. I wanted to make amends, to compensate for everything with all I had. Maria, our housekeeper, once muttered behind their backs, “Miss Aubrey is the darling, Miss Iris is just a nobody.” I heard her, and I gave Iris things even more often. One time, I held her hand, guiding her slowly through the house. “The curtains, they’re velvet.” “The vase, it’s glass, cool to the touch.” I led her to touch the piano. A jarring note startled her, making her flinch, but then curiosity quickly drew her hand back to explore. That afternoon, we sat on the carpet in my room. The sunlight was beautiful. For some reason, I suddenly took her hand and gently placed it over my left chest. “Iris, feel this,” I smiled, “That’s a heartbeat.” Her small hand was a little cool, resting there quietly. After a moment, she took my hand and placed it on her own chest. Thump. Thump. It beat steadily and strongly. Completely unlike my own fragile heart. I froze. We shared the same blood, the same face, even our heartbeats echoed a similar rhythm. But my heart was dying. And she, who was so vibrantly alive, couldn’t see a thing. I squeezed her hand, a sudden ache gripping my heart. That phrase, which had haunted me for years—”Iris is here so I can live”— Felt like a thorn, piercing me with agonizing pain. In that moment, my heart wavered. Was all this “goodness” I showered on her truly saving her, or was I… killing her?
My memories grew hazy, blurring into a chaotic darkness where I thought I heard voices. “It’s done.” A calm male voice, tinged with post-surgery fatigue. “Very smooth.” Another voice responded. They were the doctors. So… the surgery was a success! I was alive! Iris’s heart was beating in my chest. This realization brought tears to my eyes. But the next second, a crushing wave of guilt washed over me. It was Iris… the one who always quietly followed me, the one with a healthy heart, who had given hers to me. What about her? Was she alright? I used every ounce of my consciousness to try and open my eyes, to take one last look at Iris, who must be on the operating table beside me. But my eyelids felt like they were soldered shut, heavy and unmoving. Only endless darkness, and the increasingly clear voices in my ears. “Finally, a weight off our shoulders.” Mom’s voice carried through the operating room door. “Yeah,” Dad responded, pausing for a moment before saying, “Eight years, finally paid off.” My heart gave a soft tremor. Eight years… was it for me to live? They must have suffered so much too. Now they could finally breathe a sigh of relief. I struggled to get up, focusing my will against the darkness before my eyes. Light flooded in, and I instinctively turned my head, looking at the other operating table beside me. Iris lay quietly on it, her eyes bandaged, but her chest rose and fell gently with her breathing. She… she was alive! Thank goodness, we both made it. This realization brought me a bewildered sense of relief. The doctors must have found another suitable heart donor at the last minute. Fate, after all, was finally kind to us. “Iris…” I mumbled, stumbling off the bed and toward Iris, wanting to apologize to her. I reached out, but my fingertips passed right through her hand resting on the bed’s edge, without any resistance. No warmth, no substance. I looked down at my hands, now faintly transparent, and finally understood my current state. Turning back, on the operating table I had just risen from, a white sheet already covered it, outlining a human form. I walked over and gently lifted it. The “me” beneath had pure white bandages over her eyes, looking as if she were just peacefully sleeping. So, I… I didn’t survive the surgery after all? I looked at my transparent hands, then at Iris’s bandaged eyes. No, it couldn’t be. Mom and Dad loved me so much, how could they… But that phrase, “eight years, finally paid off,” now echoed with a jarring harshness. The operating room door opened. Medical staff entered, skillfully moving Iris’s gurney out. I silently followed alongside. My parents waited outside the door. They immediately rushed forward. Mom gently stroked Iris’s hair. Dad quietly asked the doctor, “Will she… be able to see soon?” “The surgery was a complete success. She’ll regain her sight after recovery.” They wore smiles of relief I had never seen before, as if losing a daughter was something to celebrate. Mom and Dad walked slowly with the gurney down the hospital corridor. They never once looked back. I stood alone in the empty hallway, watching their backs disappear into the light at the far end. Despite a pang of loss, I was happy for them. Iris’s eyes were finally healed. On such a joyous day, seeing my corpse would be bad luck. They could finally start a new life. No longer worried about me, this ailing child, no longer counting down the days with bated breath. A moment later, an orderly came in and turned the gurney carrying my body in another direction. “So young, what a pity.” “I heard her corneas were donated to her sister.” The gurney wheels rolled smoothly, echoing down the cold corridor, heading toward the morgue. So that was it. I hadn’t received a heart; I had given my eyes. My death, in exchange for Iris’s sight.
When I drifted into the hospital room, Mom was carefully moistening Iris’s lips with a cotton swab. Dad stood by the bed, his gaze fixed on Iris’s bandaged eyes— That intense focus, I had experienced it, or so I thought, and yet, it felt alien now. He was rarely home back then. Even when he was, he mostly stayed in his study. For me, he almost always gave me whatever I asked for. No matter what it was, if I mentioned it, it would appear by my bedside the next day. I once thought he was naturally serious, that men simply didn’t know how to express love. Because his gaze towards me always held a veil of impenetrable distance. Now, that barrier had suddenly vanished. A few days later, the bandages were removed. Iris opened her eyes and softly called out, “Dad.” Just that one word, and my father’s eyes welled up. He pulled her into a tight hug, his shoulders trembling slightly. I had called him “Dad” countless times, always met with a controlled smile. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get emotional; he just never got emotional for me. Back home, there was no memorial, no photo. The family picture on the mantelpiece was gone, along with the teapot and slippers I’d given them. Everything. All traces of me were wiped clean, with a chilling speed that sent shivers through my translucent form. Perhaps it was for the best. They wouldn’t have to grieve over my things. People had to move on, right? “Welcome home.” Dad held Iris’s hand, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. He led her through every corner, as if she were the true owner of this house. Finally, they stopped at my old room. It was empty, the walls stark white—freshly painted. “This will be your art studio,” Mom said, her voice filled with anticipation. “You mentioned wanting to learn painting before.” Iris nodded gently. I remembered when Iris had mentioned wanting to paint, Mom had dismissed her, saying, “There’s no spare room.” So swift, so definite. It wasn’t that she lied. She was just waiting— Waiting for me to leave, waiting for Iris to see again. But how could a blind person be so keen on painting? The question flickered, then I quickly pushed it down. Iris could see now; it was perfectly normal for her to want to paint. Watching Mom gently stroke Iris’s hair, an incredibly blurry fragment flashed through my mind. It was like when I was very young, Mom had touched my head like that, humming a song. Dad brought a picture book and sat beside Iris. “Look, these are Monet’s Water Lilies. Aren’t the colors beautiful?” His fingers gently traced the pages, his eyes soft. I suddenly recalled the art book he gave me for my birthday last year; it had been placed on the highest shelf, still in its wrapping. “Aubrey, your health isn’t good. Don’t strain yourself with such taxing things,” he’d said then. Thinking about it now, he was right. My fragile body shouldn’t have wished for too much. Iris looked up, then suddenly asked, “Would Aubrey have liked these paintings?” The air instantly froze. Mom and Dad’s smiles stiffened. “Don’t mention her.” Mom’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it struck my heart like a tiny hammer. “Your sister, she…” Dad hesitated, finally just patting Iris’s head. “The most important thing now is for your eyes to recover well.” My heart ached slightly, but then I quickly let it go. They were just afraid of upsetting Iris by bringing me up. After all, the surgery had just finished; emotional fluctuations weren’t good for recovery. I watched the three of them sitting in the sunlight, looking so happy and content. This was good. Iris could see, and Mom and Dad no longer had to worry about me. My sacrifice was worth it. Still, for some reason, my chest ached. Even though my heart was no longer beating.
I still lingered in the house where I had lived for eighteen years, while my former family had moved on to a new life. Sounds came from the living room. I drifted over and saw Dad taping an eye chart to the wall. “Come on, Iris, let’s see which line you can read,” he said, his voice filled with expectation and encouragement. Mom stood nearby, wringing her hands nervously. Iris stepped forward and clearly read out the smallest line of symbols. “That’s wonderful!” Mom hugged her tightly, her voice choked with emotion. “It’s all right as long as you can see, it’s all right…” Dad also let out a sigh of relief, gently patting Iris’s back. I stood there, stunned. I remembered last year after my school physical, I’d held up my 20/15 vision report, happily showing it to Dad. He’d just given it a dismissive glance and said, “Take care of your eyes, don’t stare at your phone so much.” At the time, I thought he just wasn’t good at praise. But facing a fully recovered Iris, he was like a completely different person. After dinner, Mom brought out a brand-new photo album. “Iris, let’s organize the old photos and put new ones in later.” Mom’s voice carried a lightness, a sense of starting anew. I floated closer to look. In that thick family album, every photo of me had been removed. Those empty spaces were like silent, gaping holes, mocking my eighteen years of life. Dad was organizing the bookshelves nearby. He stacked all my textbooks, leisure reading, even my award-winning essays, preparing to sell them as scrap paper. Without a moment of hesitation. My awards were still taped to the study wall. He reached out, tore them down, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them into the cardboard box at his feet. His movements were practiced, as if he were simply cleaning out a dusty old relic. Besides the awards, there was also my first painting from kindergarten. In that drawing, I had used childish strokes to draw our family of three. At the time, Dad had praised my drawing and even bought a frame for it. Now, it was casually tossed into the scrap paper box. Every trace proving my existence was ruthlessly cleared away. Except for the perpetually locked drawer in the study, which remained untouched. I stood right beside Dad, watching him. He didn’t notice me at all. An old photo album I’d never seen before fell from the highest shelf. Dad walked over, picked up the album expressionlessly, and tossed it into the scrap paper box without even looking. “Just some useless old photos,” he said blandly, as if explaining, or perhaps talking to himself. Mom went to prepare Iris’s bedtime milk. She opened the highest cupboard and took out that familiar white medicine bottle— The “imported heart medication” I had taken for eight years. “Does she still need to take this medication?” Dad asked, walking in. “The doctor said to continue for a while to consolidate,” Mom replied. She skillfully poured out two pills, crushed them, and mixed them into the milk. “It’s good for eye recovery.” I froze. Good for eye recovery? As Mom left with the milk, a curled label peeled off the bottle and fluttered to the floor. I instinctively floated closer, reading the original medicine name beneath the faded cover— Corneal Repair Agent. So, for eight years, the medication I took diligently every day wasn’t keeping me alive at all.
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