I've Been Dead Three Years My Sister Kicked Down My Door for a Final Battle
She hit me with her car, putting me in the hospital. I snuck into her room in the middle of the night and pulled the oxygen tube from her nose.
The year our hatred for each other finally peaked, the family went bankrupt.
We were forced into a truce, each of us left to fend for ourselves.
Ten years later, my sister, Ava, was a titan of the business world. The first thing she did when she returned to the States was smash the art studio that was my entire life. She ripped the family portrait I’d painted to shreds with her own two hands and screamed for me to come out and fight her.
“Leo! We’re not done yet! Don’t be a goddamn coward.”
“You love these paintings so much, don’t you?”
“If you don’t show your face, I’ll burn every last one of them to the ground!”
I threw a punch at her, but my hand passed right through her body.
It took me a long moment to remember.
I’d been dead for three years.
These paintings were my last gift to my sister—to the world.
1.
Ava Ashford’s return was an event.
The media swarmed the airport, a frenzy of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Business leaders from every sector vied for a meeting. But she turned down every invitation, every partnership offer, and instead sped directly from her private jet to my studio.
Studio was a generous term. It was the top floor of a crumbling pre-war building, five flights up and no elevator.
Ava was heaving for breath by the time she reached the top, muttering a stream of curses under her breath.
“Leo, you son of a bitch. Hiding in a shithole like this just to avoid me.”
“You just wait. When I find you, I’ll break your other leg!”
I floated a glob of spit at her, wishing I could claw at her perfectly made-up face. She was complaining after one trip up the stairs. For years, I had dragged my shattered leg up and down those same stairs, over and over again.
A sudden, violent crash snapped me out of my thoughts.
Ava had kicked the door to my studio clean off its hinges.
She stood silhouetted in the doorway, a cloud of dust billowing around her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Does a person actually live here?”
“Leo, you used to complain if a mattress cost less than ten thousand dollars. What happened to you?”
She plopped down on my painting stool, her breathing still ragged.
Our last battle had cost me my leg. But Ava hadn’t walked away unscathed. The oxygen deprivation had left her with permanent brain damage, subtle but there. Her heart and lungs were severely weakened. She’d spent a fortune on a dedicated medical team just to keep her alive a few extra years.
“Useless,” I muttered, rolling my ghostly eyes.
I watched, cold and detached, as Ava directed her men to tear my studio apart. But they were as useless as she was. They found the stash of morphine bottles under my bed, but not a single trace of me.
Ava scanned the room, her eyes landing on an empty prescription box. She kicked it across the floor. A bitter smile twisted her lips.
“No wonder your life turned into this garbage fire. Got yourself hooked on the hard stuff, didn't you?”
“And you wanted to fight me for the inheritance? Leo, if the Ashford fortune had ended up in your hands, I wouldn’t have been able to rest in my grave.”
At that, Ava’s expression flickered, a shadow passing over her eyes. She seemed to be remembering something distant. Remembering the moment our war began.
When she looked up again, her face was pure ice.
Her gaze swept the room, finally settling on the large painting in the center: the family portrait.
The sight of my face, so familiar, finally shattered her composure. She stormed forward and ripped the canvas from its easel. With two violent tears, she shredded it.
“You think you deserve to be in a family portrait?” she spat.
“I told you, there’s no place for you in the Ashford family. I don’t have a brother like you!”
“I have one brother, and one brother only. His name is Noah!”
That name, one I hadn’t heard in so long, made my spectral form flicker.
Still not satisfied, Ava screamed for me to come out and face her. The dusty studio remained silent.
She pulled a Zippo from her pocket, flicking it open. The flame danced dangerously.
“Leo, you spineless bastard. What’s the point in hiding?”
“I swear to God, I won’t stop until you’re dead! If you don’t come out right now, I’m going to burn every single one of these pathetic paintings!”
As the words left her mouth, a small, hidden compartment behind the destroyed portrait clicked open. A single videotape clattered to the floor.
And from a digital voice recorder on a nearby shelf, my voice echoed through the room.
“Ava, if you dare touch my paintings, I’ll haunt you from the grave.”
2
For a moment, Ava froze. Then, with a snarl, she stomped on the voice recorder, crushing it under her heel.
“You think a cheap trick like that is going to scare me? Leo, you haven’t changed at all!”
But when her eyes fell on the videotape, she hesitated. After a long three seconds, she drew her foot back.
“Let’s just see what other pathetic games you have planned.”
The screen flickered to life, revealing my pale, gaunt face.
The moment she saw me, Ava’s expression soured with disgust.
In the video, I gave a wide, unnerving smile.
“Ava. It’s been a while. You’re still alive? What a shame.”
“But don’t get too comfortable. I have a little gift for you.”
“Watch it. Then you can die.”
The camera’s view shifted, panning around a small, cramped bedroom. I was bent over, carefully organizing a stack of canvases. The sleeves of my oversized robe fell back, revealing arms that were nothing but skin, bone, and a constellation of needle marks.
I held up the topmost painting to the camera. It was the family portrait. A version of it.
In the painting, there were four of us. A younger me was holding Ava’s hand, my smile shy but blissfully happy.
The date painted in the corner was July 8th, 2013.
The day before I came home to the Ashfords.
The police had just busted a major trafficking ring. My “adoptive parents”—the couple who beat me for breathing too loud—were taken away in cuffs. They told me the man and woman who had raised me weren’t my parents at all. They were my kidnappers. They were the monsters who had ruined my life.
A kind social worker stroked my hair, her touch so gentle it felt alien. She pressed a few photographs into my hand.
“Don’t be scared, Leo. We found your real family. As soon as the paperwork is done, they’re coming to take you home.”
That night, I was too excited to sleep. I stared at the three faces in the photos and painted the family I imagined. A beautiful, gentle mother. A tall, strong father. And a big sister who would protect me and play with me.
When I finally walked into that house, I saw they had a family portrait of their own hanging over the fireplace. It was almost exactly like the one I had painted.
Except I wasn't in it.
My father, Mr. Ashford, explained awkwardly, “After you were taken… your mother was never the same. She was so heartbroken.”
“We… we adopted a boy from the local orphanage. He was about your age. It was the only thing that helped.”
My mother pulled me into her arms, her tears soaking my shirt.
“It’s okay, Leo, my baby. You and Noah are both my sons now. God has given me back what I lost.”
“We’re a family again. We’ll never be separated again!”
They hired therapists to help me adjust. They scheduled appointments at the best cosmetic clinics to treat my scars. Noah, my new brother, was the first to notice the whip marks on my back and my missing tooth. When he found out my kidnappers had done it, he broke down and sobbed, clutching my hand and repeating over and over, “I’m so sorry, Leo. I’m so sorry.”
There was no dramatic rivalry, no fighting for affection. My new family did everything they could to treat us equally. Anything Noah had, I had too. Anything I wanted that Noah didn’t have, they gave me without a second thought.
I could always feel it, though—a faint, invisible barrier between us. But after a lifetime of starvation and pain, having a full stomach and people who loved me was more than enough. I was content.
Watching the video, Ava’s hands clenched into tight fists.
“Leo, I knew you were a manipulative bastard.”
“Mom, Dad, and Noah… they were so good to you. And you…”
“After all these years, you’re still using that stupid painting to torment me.”
“You’re shameless, Leo. You deserve to rot in hell!”
Ava shot to her feet, raising her hand to smash the VCR.
But just before her fist came down, she stopped dead, her eyes wide with shock.
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