On my tenth Christmas, because I begged my brother Jacob Cox to come home for my birthday, he died in that plane crash, his body never found. Since then, my parents have resented me. They blamed me for Jacob’s death, forcing me to visit his memorial every Christmas to repent. Eight Christmases passed. Just when I thought I’d spend my entire life atoning, I was stalked and killed by a criminal on my eighteenth birthday. Before dying, I desperately tried to message my mom Elizabeth Morgan for help, but she harshly accused me: “You just don’t want to atone, always lying! If you hadn’t forced him to come back, Jacob wouldn’t have died. This is the punishment you deserve!” The call ended abruptly. I stared blankly at the darkened screen, suddenly losing all will to survive. I thought maybe I really shouldn’t be alive. But later, Jacob—who should have been dead for eight Christmases—returned with his pregnant fiancée. When they learned of my death, they were devastated. ***** On my tenth birthday, I made a fatal mistake—I caused my own brother’s death. I grew up in a happy family with loving parents and an exceptional brother, cherished by everyone. But all that vanished with one phone call. That day was my birthday. I called Jacob, wanting him to come home to celebrate with me. Instead, he died in a plane crash, his body never recovered. From that moment on, my parents despised me. They told me repeatedly: “Why did you force Jacob to come back? Why couldn’t it have been you who died?” That accident didn’t just kill Jacob—it killed me too. Guilt, remorse, and my parents’ accusations pushed me into an abyss. I questioned myself countless times: “Why did I ask Jacob to come back? Why did God take Jacob?” If I hadn’t called him that day, he might never have died. Regret was useless, and no one would give me answers. From my tenth birthday onward, I lived in atonement. Every Christmas, on the anniversary of the crash—my birthday—my parents made me visit the cemetery to repent. I endured this for eight Christmases. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get more miserable, the “Devil in the Rain” found me and brutally murdered me. Even then, I fought desperately to survive. I pulled out the stun gun my father Richard Cox had given me, disguised as an adorable white lamb. Years ago, because of Richard’s work, he’d made enemies. Once, Elizabeth and I were kidnapped, and she was dragged dozens of yards by a vehicle trying to save me. Richard took a knife to the chest for us. We only survived with help from the police. After that, Richard gave me a pendant containing a high-voltage stun gun. After teaching me how to use it, he told me: “I can’t always be there to protect you. You must keep yourself safe.” When the criminal caught me, I desperately activated the stun gun and lunged at him, but it malfunctioned. I lost my last chance at survival. To this day, I vividly remember everything I endured. Wrenches, pliers, axes—each tool used mercilessly on my body. My terrified expressions became the killer’s stimulant. The pain made me sob uncontrollably, losing control of my bodily functions. I never imagined bone-breaking sounds could be so loud, echoing clearly in my ears. I slipped into unconsciousness.
When I opened my eyes again, I had become a ghost. I was shocked to find myself in the police station. Outside, lightning flashed and thunder roared as Richard, dressed in his work clothes, looked at the body with eyes full of compassion. Several young forensic experts surrounded him. On the table lay a bag containing a body that had been cut into pieces. Sheriff Michael Hunt and his team had worked hard to find the body bag before the heavy rain could soak it. I never thought my death would be discovered so quickly. Perhaps God took pity on me, allowing a homeless man to find a bag of flesh while rummaging through garbage, which led to the discovery of my fingers. A heavy downpour had set the stage for this brutal dismemberment case. Outside, lightning flashed and thunder roared as rain poured down in torrents. All police officers, accompanied by K-9 units, were searching throughout the city. Michael was furious. This brutal dismemberment case matched the method of the “Rain Demon” from seven or eight years ago. He asked, “Richard, don’t you think this case resembles the work of the ‘Rain Demon’ from eight years ago?” Richard’s face darkened. The “Rain Demon” was a killer who specifically chose rainy days to commit his crimes. He particularly enjoyed torturing and killing young women, destroying countless happy families. Back then, Richard had finally gathered enough evidence and was ready to arrest the “Rain Demon.” But the “Rain Demon” fled after becoming aware of the investigation, and to seek revenge, he sabotaged the plane Jacob was on, dying alongside him. Their remains have never been found. Michael immediately thought of the “Rain Demon.” If he hadn’t died, he would certainly return for revenge. He warned Richard, “Richard, if it really is the ‘Rain Demon,’ you must ensure Elizabeth and Penelope stay safe. Most importantly, protect Penelope. She was the ‘Rain Demon’s’ chosen target!” But upon hearing my name, Richard coldly replied, “She should have died long ago.” My heart ached. I should have died long ago. These eight years were a life I had stolen. Michael knew about the plane crash from years ago, and wanted to comfort Richard, but said nothing. Back then, after learning of Jacob’s death, Richard and Elizabeth searched for him on the mountain where the plane crashed for three days and nights. In the end, they knelt by the roadside, begging God to bless Jacob. The pain of losing their son was something they could never overcome. Michael sighed, “Richard, don’t think too much about it. This case is getting a lot of attention, and we’re under tremendous pressure!” Richard understood his meaning and began working. He carefully removed the pieces of flesh from the bag, cursing the cruel killer. Some young forensic experts were seeing such a body for the first time and were shocked. However, the most important task now was to identify the victim. After officers brought back all the body fragments they could find, Richard began piecing together the body’s shape. I floated beside him, watching as he spent an entire day reconstructing a skinless body. I felt somewhat relieved. I knew my death was gruesome and worried that Richard would be horrified if he recognized me. I was also grateful that my guilt-ridden life had finally ended. Michael looked at the body on the table with a serious expression. He asked Richard if the killer did this to avoid leaving evidence or out of psychological perversion. After a long pause, Richard replied in a hoarse voice, “He wasn’t afraid of leaving evidence. According to our tests, the victim was skinned while still alive.” Clenching his fists, he said, “He did this purely out of rage!” Pointing at my body, he continued, “Look, this body even shows signs of salt corrosion! The killer tortured the victim by cutting off her flesh piece by piece!” Richard lamented sorrowfully, “This was just a young girl, 16 to 20 years old! It’s too cruel!” Floating beside Richard, I couldn’t help but applaud him. He truly deserved his reputation as the city’s best medical examiner, able to accurately determine my cause of death. Michael angrily cursed the killer, then said, “We’re currently investigating reports of missing females between 16 and 20 years old in the past two days, hoping to quickly identify the victim.”
Hearing this, Richard seemed to remember something and added, “By the way, the killer’s evidence bag containing the victim’s remains is missing the right leg bone. It’s very likely that the leg bone had features that could identify the victim, such as a congenital deformity, old injury, or surgical marks. And since the victim’s facial area was corroded by acidic solution, reconstructing the face will take time.” He sighed and removed his gloves. Next to Richard’s hand lay the blood-stained lamb pendant. Clearly, he had forgotten that he once gave it to me. After finishing his work, Richard checked his phone and angrily called Elizabeth. “Did you see the message Penelope sent? That liar, making up such stories. She’s deliberately trying to upset us!” Richard was visibly furious. “She knows perfectly well that if she hadn’t insisted Jacob go on that camping trip, he wouldn’t have been killed by that serial killer. And now Penelope claims she’s being followed!” I watched Richard’s face flush with anger, feeling sad. I thought, “Dad, I wasn’t lying. I really am dead. I would never use the killer who murdered my brother to deliberately hurt you. I would never do something like that. I was truly desperate when I sent you that message asking for help.” But Richard couldn’t see me, and neither could Elizabeth. Elizabeth responded with rage, “I saw her message too and ignored it. She’s clearly trying to avoid responsibility. She shows absolutely no remorse!” I listened to their accusations against me and covered my ears in distress. Just when I thought they would never learn of my death, my good friend Tiffany Edwards rushed into the police station to report that I had been missing for two days. However, as the officer was about to record the information, Richard stopped them, saying, “That won’t be necessary. I’m Penelope’s father. She’s not missing at all—she’s just trying to manipulate me and her mother…” Hearing this, the officer looked uncomfortably at Tiffany. Knowing Richard’s position, he could only turn and walk away. I watched Tiffany leave the station, devastated, as tears streamed down my face. I wanted to run after her but found myself trapped beside Richard. I watched him process my skull sample and followed him home after work. The dinner table was set as usual with roasted ribs, fried chicken, and cheese-baked lobster. Elizabeth remembered Jacob’s favorites but never cared about my dairy allergy. Once at the dinner table, Richard asked why I wasn’t eating the cheese-baked lobster. I thought he was finally showing concern for me. Gathering my courage, I said, “Dad, I’m allergic to dairy…” Elizabeth slammed down her knife and pointed at me, yelling, “You’re so ungrateful! I work hard to prepare dinner and now I’m wrong for doing that?” I looked helplessly at Richard, the hero I once thought would protect me. This time, my hero simply cut a large piece of cheese and put it on my plate, saying, “Don’t upset your mother.” Under their pressure, I eventually ate the entire cheese-baked lobster. That night, my throat swelled until I could barely breathe, my vision blurred, and my entire body burned and itched. “Help… help me…” My voice was hoarse. I stumbled toward the door, trying to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Fear instantly overwhelmed me. I banged on the door, desperately trying to make noise. “Help me… Dad, Mom… I don’t want to die…” In my daze, I heard Elizabeth’s voice from the living room. She said, “It’s just an allergic reaction, she won’t die. Good thing I locked the door. She’s always playing the victim! Last night Jacob came to me in a dream saying he wanted the new gaming console. Let’s go now before the mall closes.” I screamed silently, “No! Mom, Dad, don’t leave me! I don’t want to die, please help me…” With the slam of the front door, I was completely abandoned. I thought, “This is it, maybe death won’t hurt anymore.” I curled up in the corner waiting to die. I could hear the downstairs neighbor talking with his daughter. “Sweetheart, didn’t you know you’re allergic to nuts? That was so dangerous!” “I’m sorry, Dad. It was an accident. Don’t tell Mom.” “Your mom already knows. She was so worried her back pain flared up, but she still made your favorite apple pie. All that matters is that you’re safe.” Like a beggar peering at someone else’s happiness, I craved the warmth that wasn’t mine, both greedy and self-destructive. In that moment, I felt unbearable shame with nowhere to hide. I wanted parents who cared about me too, who would prepare food I liked, who would love me. But I was just the sinner who caused Jacob’s death, undeserving of love. But I really didn’t want to die… I didn’t die that day. At the last moment, I jumped out the window to escape and was taken to the hospital for treatment. The doctor said I was lucky to have arrived in time; a little later and my life would have been in danger. A woman beside me, taking care of her daughter, said to me, “It’s good you’re okay. Otherwise, your parents would be so worried!” I looked at the girl enviously. My lonely silhouette reflected in the glass. Comforting myself, and as if announcing to everyone, I laughed loudly and said, “Yes, my dad and mom love me very, very much.” Suddenly, the hospital door was pushed open forcefully. I saw Richard and Elizabeth rushing toward me. Feeling hurt, I struggled to sit up despite the pain, tears flowing as I said, “Dad, Mom…” I wanted to say, “I’m so scared, I was really afraid of dying… Could you hug me? Even just once, just once would be enough…” Elizabeth grabbed my collar and slammed me from the bed to the floor. The IV needle was ripped out. My hand was bleeding. She said, “You slut! You’re deliberately playing the victim, making yourself look allergic and jumping out windows for everyone to see. Are you trying to tell everyone that your father and I mistreated you, to ruin our reputation? Why didn’t you just jump and die?” I curled up as my body was kicked again and again. I didn’t want to hurt them; I just didn’t want to die… I knew the height of the third floor wouldn’t kill me, but I underestimated how much Richard and Elizabeth despised me. I saw Richard leaning against the wall, coldly watching as Elizabeth beat me. The woman who had spoken to me earlier was holding her daughter, comforting her. The crowd gathered at the door looked at me with contempt and disdain, as if saying I was a vicious child. The illusion of being loved that I had just mustered the courage to create was completely shattered in front of everyone. Richard and Elizabeth didn’t love me. They hated me the most… After that, they cut off my living expenses. I applied for boarding school. Every day I ate one-dollar sandwiches and free soup from the cafeteria. At night, I slept in a sixteen-person dorm room with just a sheet on the bed. The few hundred dollars in housing fees depleted my scholarship money each semester. As I moved up to middle school and high school, the boarding fees increased. I could only study day and night, hoping to achieve excellent results each time to win scholarships to sustain myself. I always thought that if I became more excellent, I would eventually make Richard and Elizabeth love me again. The reality was, when I brought home my nearly all-A report card and was praised by visiting neighbors, Elizabeth immediately retorted, “She’s stupid, nowhere near as good as Jacob. She couldn’t possibly score this well.” Then she slapped me across the face and scolded, “You cheated on the test, didn’t you?” My face hurt, and so did my heart. I wished I could disappear. Later, when the counselor confirmed my grades to Elizabeth, she merely glanced at the report card torn to pieces in the trash can and said disdainfully, “What’s there to show off about? Jacob got A+ in every subject. You’re so useless. How embarrassing!” Along with that shredded report card, my heart was broken too. Richard and Elizabeth liked smart children like Jacob, so I tried hard to become like Jacob. I studied even harder. I suffered from eczema, chilblains, allergies, over and over again. Coming out of the SAT exam, I finally had a chance to prove I was as excellent as Jacob. I thought, “Will Dad and Mom start loving me now…?” But I died before receiving my acceptance letter. Until death, I never became the child loved by Richard and Elizabeth, never as excellent as Jacob. I looked at the seat they kept for Jacob and ate in silence. This scene repeated day after day for eight years. I thought, “I’m the one who killed Jacob and made Richard and Elizabeth like this. I should go to hell.” The doorbell rang, and a voice from my memories sounded. “Dad, Mom, I’m back with my fiancée!” I saw the usually cautious Richard shatter a plate. The usually volatile Elizabeth collapsed in her chair, tears streaming down her face, repeatedly asking Richard, “Is it him? Is it him?” Richard rushed to the door, taking a long time before opening it. Standing outside was a tall man, and I saw him. He was my brother who should have been dead for eight years.
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