Chapter 11
+ 5 Points
Chapter 11
After leaving the police station, they went to my apartment to sort through my belongings, following the address provided by the authorities.
I had stayed here after graduation, living and working for two whole years.
They had never visited.
Sitting in the car, my mother suddenly called out, “Delilah.”
Delilah looked at her anxiously, her eyes betraying an unmistakable guilt.
“Was that call Peaches made before she
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died meant for you?”
+ 5 Points
Delilah opened her mouth but couldn’t find
her voice.
Even the usually articulate Delilah couldn’t come up with a suitable excuse.
Finally, she said, “I had to wake up at four for makeup, so I went to bed early… I might have accidentally hung up in my sleep.”
She squeezed out a few tears, making her sorrow seem genuine.
My mother nodded and fell silent, as if it were merely a casual inquiry.
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Of course.
She called Delilah “Delila,” never Delilah.
When speaking of me, she always used my full name.
I sat in the car, slowly recovering from the recent agonizing pain.
Delilah’s eyes glistened with faint tears.
I drifted through memories, recalling the names of the three of us.
Delilah was their cherished first child.
Abelard was a blessing from god.
And my name-
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My name…
Less than 24 hours after birth, my
brother stopped breathing.
twin
The doctor said it was due to the poor development of the fetus in the womb, which led to organ failure.
Beside the sickbed, an elderly woman shared her wisdom: “This situation is usually because one child took all the nutrients from the other. I’ve seen it in the countryside during my years as a midwife. Look at your daughter; she turned out so well.”
My mother leaned against the headboard, her gaze filled with resentment and
confusion as she looked at me.
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She hadn’t given me a name even when I
was a month old.
It wasn’t until my grandmother called that I got my name.
“This year’s peach blossoms in the old house are in full bloom. Let’s call her Peaches, she
said.
My father didn’t care about me as an Omega, so he was indifferent to what name I was given.
The car was engulfed in silence.
Abelard broke the quiet with some discomfort.
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“I didn’t expect Peaches to have such bad luck…”
My mother suddenly turned to him. “What do you call her?”
Abelard was taken aback.
He had always called Delilah “sister” and referred to me by my full name.
This had been tacitly accepted in our family.
“Peaches is your sister. Your father and I can call her that, but you can’t just use her name like that. It’s rude.”
Abelard, who had been spoiled since childhood, was at a loss with my mother’s sudden reprimand.
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He could only awkwardly scratch his nose. “Mom, are we taking sister’s ashes back with
us?”
My mother gave him a cold glance and said nothing.
My apartment wasn’t very tidy, not at all how one might expect a young female wolf to keep her space.
It was a 30–square–meter studio, with a sofa and coffee table next to the bed.
On the coffee table, half of a shriveled pomelo was left uneaten.
A blanket was draped over the sofa, and the
floor was cluttered with scattered books.
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Abelard had a slight obsession with
cleanliness.
He clearly wanted to say something but, after glancing at my mother, decided against
- it.
My mother picked up a book at random; it was about psychology.
She hesitated for a moment, flipped through a few pages, and suddenly clenched her fingers.
The chapters on self–destructive tendencies and family origins were marked with many underlines in pen.
These pages, loose and easily flipped
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through, were clearly read repeatedly.
She opened the drawer of the small cabinet next to her. Inside were medical records from the hospital, conversation notes from the psychologist, several empty pill bottles, and at the bottom, a small stack of travel tickets, mostly to popular attractions and destinations.
The room was small, cramped with four people, and the atmosphere was thick and heavy, pressing down on them with a silent, oppressive weight.
Delilah couldn’t stand it any longer. Pointing to the top ticket for a popular attraction, she forced a cheerful tone. “At least Peachy had some good times before she passed.”
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“She visited more places than any of us.”
It was one of the many tactics she used on me. She would casually mention in front of family how my life was always filled with joy, contrasting it with how I appeared to outsiders–always pleasant and well–behaved, unlike the hysterics and conflicts at home. It was her way of justifying my perceived coldness and ingratitude.
But today, that tactic failed.
My mother abruptly turned, her gaze cold and terrifying. “Mother…”
Before Delilah could utter another word, a sharp slap landed on her face. She was stunned.
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My father, who had always favored Delilah, quickly moved to protect her, frowning as he said, “Why hit her? Can’t we talk things out?”
My mother held the conversation notes from my sessions with the psychologist.
When did you begin self–harming? After starting middle school. Once, when Mom touched my head, I reflexively pushed her hand away, causing her to almost get hit by a car. I remember her hateful look. She finally started being kind to me, and I couldn’t appreciate it. I was just a thankless, ungrateful child.
Do you feel a lack of belonging in
your family? Why do you feel like you’re
unnecessary? – When I was five, my sister
I
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said I should die along with my brother. If it weren’t for me, she would be an only child, receiving all of Mom and Dad’s love. My mother also said that I was born so inherently wicked that I killed my brother the
moment we were born.
– Do you frequently have suicidal thoughts? Is there any…
Her lips quivered, as if enveloped by a delayed and growing agony.
“You act so obedient in front of us…”
Her voice was filled with bewilderment.
“What have you been saying about Peaches
behind our backs?”
My father disapproved. “Peaches was
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always unlucky. Delilah didn’t say anything wrong.”
“Be quiet!”
My mother shouted, her face flushing with an unnatural redness.
Abelard, concerned for her health, hurried to support her. “Dad, you know Mom has a heart condition!”
“Peaches is dead. No matter what, you shouldn’t hit Delilah!”
My father’s eyes narrowed.
Delilah seemed stunned by the slap. She looked at my mother and then suddenly displayed a sweet but malicious smile, like a
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flower whose petals oozed poison.
“Mom, don’t you remember? I was just a child back then, and you were the one who told me that Peaches caused our brother’s
death.”
Abelard erupted in anger. “Delilah! How dare you speak to Mom like that!”
They stood facing each other, clearly divided into two camps. In my tiny room, they argued and blamed each other over my death.
I floated on the sofa, coldly observing it all, until the doorbell rang.
