Erasing The Night Of My Birth

Maybe my existence was a glitch in the universe. A mistake that never should have been coded into reality.

That realization didnt fully click until I was twelve, the year my brother was born. I remember trying to change his diaperhe was this tiny, screaming pink thingand I was clumsy, my hands shaking. My mother didn't just stop me; she threw me against the hallway wall with a force that made my teeth rattle.

The look in her eyes wasn't just anger. It was a cocktail of pure loathing and bone-deep terror. She shrieked at me, demanding to know what I was trying to do to her son. Then came the words, the ones that landed like a serrated blade in my chest: "Youre just like him. Youve got that rapists blood in you. Why didnt you just rot with your father?"

I sat there, clutching my bleeding head. For the first time in my life, I didn't fight back. For the first time, I realized she was right.

Shed never hidden her hatred. When I was three, she tried to "help me sleep" with a bottle of Benadryl. When I was five, shed "accidentally" let me get into the industrial cleaner under the sink. But I was stubborn. I was a weed that refused to be pulled, surviving every attempt to prune me from her life.

By seven, Id learned how to bite back. If she didn't feed me, Id flip the dinner table so no one else could eat either. If she came at me with a belt, Id wait until she wasn't looking and give her precious youngest daughter a black eye. I fought her tooth and nail for five years, a bitter cold war within the walls of a suburban house. But the birth of my brotherher "clean" startfinally broke me.

By the time I limped to my grandmothers porch, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a bruised purple. Gran didn't even look surprised to see me covered in blood and grime.

She moved with a practiced, weary efficiency, pulling out her first-aid kit to swab my cuts before setting a bowl of canned chicken soup in front of me. Usually, this was where Id inhale the food and brag about how Id get even once I was big enough to leave this hellhole.

But tonight, the fire was out. I stared at the oily broth and whispered, "Gran... Im not really his, am I? Not like the others."

Gran didn't answer. Her eyes shifteda quick, involuntary flash of disgust that told me everything. She stood up abruptly and began scrubbing the kitchen counter where the medical kit had been, her motions frantic, as if she were trying to bleach away a stain Id left behind.

I got it then. The blood in my veins was toxic. I was the living, breathing ghost of the worst night of my mothers life. No wonder she hated me.

A wave of nausea hit me so hard I barely made it out the back door. I leaned against the fence and retched until my stomach was empty. The night air was sharp, making the gashes on my face sting. Before, Id worn these scars like trophies of a war she owed me for. Now, I couldn't even bear the thought of her seeing me.

I didn't go back inside. Gran didn't come out to look for me.

I wandered the streets aimlessly, a limping shadow in a town that felt too small to hold me. I passed a bistro where a family was huddled around a birthday cake. The woman in the centerthe motherwas glowing, her laughter ringing through the glass. It hurt to look at.

Last year, on my moms birthday, shed had that same smileuntil she saw me. The moment I walked into the room, her face curdled.

I remembered an essay prompt from school: My Mother. Id written a horror story, painting her as a demon in a floral dress. My teacher had pulled me into the office, lecturing me for an hour about "perspective" and "respect." She told me something I actually believed for a second: "There is no mother in this world who doesn't love her child."

Id taken the money Id made from returning aluminum cans and bought a small cake. I just wanted her to hold me, just once, the way she held my sister. But the coldness in her eyes made me feel like a circus freak. The hurt turned into a black fire in my brain. Id caught a few bullfrogs in the garden and shoved them inside the cake when no one was looking.

The sound of her screaming when they hopped out... Id lived off that twisted high for months. I thought she deserved it.

But standing outside that bistro, watching a "real" mother, I realized the truth. I was the one who didn't deserve to be there. My very existence was a recurring trauma for her.

I looked at that happy woman inside and made a decision. For my mothers birthday this year, Id give her the only thing she actually wanted. Total freedom.

I decided to die.

The moment the thought took root, my steps felt lighter. I started planning it like a school projecthow to do it without making a mess for others, how to disappear without a trace.

But the universe wasn't done with me yet. A patrol car spotted me loitering near the bridge and hauled me back home.

My mother opened the door. I kept my head down, staring at the frayed edges of the welcome mat, listening to the ice in her voice.

"Why didn't you just stay lost?"

I wanted to snap back, but the words died in my throat. Instead, I stood there like a coward and whispered, "If... if I really died, what would you do?"

Would you be even a little bit sad?

"Hah," she scoffed, not even turning around as she walked toward the kids' rooms. "If you actually had the guts to do it, Id be the happiest woman alive."

The door clicked shut. I stood in the dark living room and wiped my eyes, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

See? I knew shed love her gift.

My only friend was a girl named Judy. She was a foster kid whod been through the ringer, sharp-tongued and smarter than anyone gave her credit for. We used to spend our afternoons scavaging for "treasures" in the alleys.

The next day, I bought her a popsicle and sat on the curb, my voice low. "How do you make someone die... so it looks like an accident?"

Judy gave me a look like I was growing a second head. She shoved the half-eaten popsicle into my hand. "Stay away from me. I dont do felony shit."

"No, wait," I grabbed her arm, desperate. "I mean, how do you go out without it hurting? Someone whos... maybe a little scared of pain."

Judys face went pale. She scrambled to her feet, trying to bolt. I tackled her like a linebacker. "You ate my popsicle! You're in this now! Just give me an idea!"

She couldn't shake me off, so she sat back down, her face twisted in a grimace. "Look, girl, I know things are rough. You get hit, sure. But they feed you, don't they? Look at you, youre sturdier than I am!"

A lump formed in my throat. How could I explain it? It wasn't about the bruises anymore. It was the realization that the hate wasn't just hersit was justified. I couldn't live with the "why" anymore. But explaining that would only make her look like the villain again, and I was done being the victim.

"Just tell me!" I barked.

Judy groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Jesus! You want to kill your mom? How am I supposed to help with that?"

I froze. I stared at her, confused. Kill my mother?

Before I could correct her, a shrill, familiar wail pierced the air.

"MOM! Shes gonna kill Mom!"

My brain stalled. I turned my head slowly. It was my sister, Chloe. She was running toward our house, screaming her head off, one of her shoes missing in her haste to tell on me.

That night, the house echoed with the sound of a belt hitting skin. My mother was manic, her eyes bloodshot, swinging a broom handle like she was fighting for her life. She looked at me like I was a monster. But through the red mist of her rage, I saw tears.

In the past, I would have fought back. I would have told her to wait until I was older, so I could hire people to break her. But tonight, I just curled into a ball on the cold linoleum and waited for it to end.

Eventually, she ran out of breath. The broom clattered to the floor. She didn't look back as she stumbled into her bedroom.

A long time passed. I forced myself up, but then I heard itthe sound of muffled, soul-crushing sobbing coming from behind her door. It sounded like she was trying to choke on her own grief. It cut through me deeper than the broom ever could.

I looked at my hand. It was covered in a mix of blood and floor dust. Filthy. Just like me.

"She looked exactly like that when she was nineteen, lying on the floor."

I jumped. Gran was standing in the doorway, her eyes cloudy, looking past me into a different decade.

"That night, her clothes were torn... she was covered in bruises just like those. She didn't make a sound. She just bit her lip until it bled."

I stopped breathing.

"She tried to get rid of you. The doctors said she couldn't. After you were born, I tried to leave you at the fire station, but the cops brought you back by morning. Said it was abandonment. Said theyd be checking in."

My life was a punchline. No one wanted me, yet Id clawed my way to twelve years old out of sheer spite.

Gran started dabbing at my face, her voice a low, rhythmic drone. "Don't blame her. She's got a bitter heart, and she never let it go."

I looked down and managed a small, hollow smile. "I don't blame her anymore, Gran."

I didn't hate her. But she still hated me enough to want me gone. When she pressed the pillow over my face later that night, she didn't realize I was awake. I felt the pillow shaking because her hands wouldn't stop trembling. I didn't struggle. I just closed my eyes and waited for the dark.

Just as my lungs began to burn, a massive force yanked the pillow away.

"Are you insane?" Grans voice was a ragged whisper. "Youd throw your whole life away for this? She isn't worth it! Once was enough!"

My mother collapsed into Grans arms, letting out a broken, jagged sound. "Mom! I can't do it anymore! She has his blood. Is she just born evil? Is she going to hurt my babies?"

Gran held her tight, but her eyes flicked to me. For a second, I thought she saw my eyes half-open. But she just whispered, "Go back to sleep."

The sobbing faded as they moved down the hall.

I lay there, gasping for air, eventually pulling the covers over my head. Before dawn, Gran came back in. She was carrying a heavy mug of steaming broth.

Chicken soup at 5 AM.

She set it on the nightstand. Her face was as weathered as a canyon wall. "Drink it."

I understood. I wanted to tell them they didn't have to rushif theyd just waited a few days, I would have found a way to do it cleanly. Now, they were going to have a mess on their hands.

But I didn't say anything. I took the mug. It was so hot it blistered my fingers. I tilted my head back and drained the whole thing. A strange, medicinal bitterness coated my tongue, seeping into my chest.

The mug hit the nightstand. I lay back down, pulled the quilt to my chin, and waited for the end. Gran watched me for a few seconds, her expression unreadable, then slipped out of the room.

The "medicine" worked fast. First came the white-hot cramping in my gut, like claws ripping at my insides. Then a bone-deep cold that made my teeth chatter. My vision blurred; the world sounded like it was underwater.

I heard Gran moving around, heard her on the phone. Then came the sirensthe high-pitched wail of an ambulance, the frantic voices, the blinding strobe of emergency lights.

In the sterile glare of the ER, a tube was forced down my throat. I retched until my vision went black, tears and bile soaking my hair. A young doctor looked at the charcoal-colored liquid in the basin, then at Gran, who looked like shed already died herself.

"What was in that soup?" he asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.

I used the last of my strength to grab his white coat. My voice was a gravelly ghost. "It was... me. I took the pills... myself..."

The doctor froze, his eyes softening into a look of devastating pity. I let go and stared at the ceiling.

I guess being "hard to kill" was my curse. Even death didn't want me.

When I came home, the house felt like a mausoleum. The walls were still white, the furniture still tidy, but the air was heavy with the stench of failure.

I became a ghost before I was even dead. I was silent. I ate what was given, I went to school, I did my chores. I shrank myself until I occupied as little space as humanly possible.

I even tried to be kind to Chloe. "Be good," I told her one day, wiping a crumb from her chin. "Don't make Mom upset." She looked at me with this confused, budding dependence.

As for the baby, Ben... my mother guarded him like he was made of glass and I was a sledgehammer. But I managed to sneak out to a little gift shop near the highway. I spent my last few dollars on two small "Guardian Angel" pins.

While my mother was staring blankly at the kitchen wall and the kids were napping, I slipped into their room. I pinned one inside Bens bassinet and tucked the other into Chloes backpack.

May you both grow up safe, I thought.

Then, I decided it was time to leave for real. I was a cowardI couldn't finish the job myself, so I would just vanish. No goodbyes.

It was a blistering summer afternoon. I was walking along the dirt path by the Blackwood Reservoir, the sun making the world hazy. Then, a sharp, distorted scream shattered the heat.

"CORA!"

I spun around. I saw Chloethat sweet, stupid girllose her footing on the steep embankment. She tumbled straight into the dark, murky depths of the reservoir.