Her Stolen Grave

I died on the night my sister, Natasha, became a legend.

It was the finals of the International Youth Dance Championship. The spotlight was blindingly bright, and everyone in the crowd was screaming her name.

But the person standing in the center of the stage, wearing her costume and dancing her final piece, was me.

My name is Emma.

I am Natashas twin sister, born three minutes after her. I was also the shadow hidden behind her spotlight.

Natasha was supposed to be hidden in the dressing room by Mom and Dad, pretending her old injury had flared up, waiting for me to finish the entire performance in her place.

But as I landed the final grand jet, my starving body finally gave out. My old right ankle injury tore apart, and the back of my head slammed heavily against the edge of the stage.

When the blood pooled around me, Mom's first instinct wasn't to save my life.

She rushed to my side and hissed under her breath:

"Get up, Emma! Don't you dare ruin things for Natasha right now!"

I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't make a sound.

Before my consciousness faded completely, Natasha rushed into the crowd wearing her hospital gown. She fell to her knees beside me, crying hysterically:

"She's not Natasha!"

"Her name is Emma!"

"She's my sister!"

"You forced her to do this!"

The entire crowd gasped.

I thought my name had finally stepped into the light.

But only after I died did I realize that the living can tell far more lies than the dead can bleed.

Seven hours after my death, Mom and Dad wheeled my body into the morgue.

The next second, they forced Natasha into her award ceremony gown.

Natasha sat on the metal bench in the hospital hallway, her hospital gown still draped over her shoulders. Her face was as white as paper.

Mom shoved the dress into her arms. "Put it on."

Natasha looked up, her eyes bloodshot.

"Emma is still in there."

Mom slapped her hard across the face.

"I know shes in there!"

"But the media is waiting outside, and the committee is waiting too!"

"Do you want the whole world to know that the prodigy dancer we raised for eighteen years is a fraud?"

Natashas head snapped to the side from the force of the blow. She didn't move for a long time.

Dad was standing at the end of the hallway making a call, his voice low but every word cutting sharply into my ears.

"Yes, Natashas old injury flared up. She was resting backstage."

"Emma has always been mentally unstable. She stole Natasha's costume and snuck onto the stage."

"Natasha was so traumatized by the incident that she started talking nonsense."

"We have the medical records. The PR statement will be released tonight."

I floated in the air, watching him calmly arrange the narrative of my death.

So, I wasn't forced to death by them.

I was just a mentally unstable, identity-stealing lunatic who ruined a genius dancers night of glory.

Natasha suddenly stood up and lunged to grab Dad's phone.

"You can't say that about her!"

Dad grabbed her wrist, twisting it back. His eyes were cold and venomous.

"Natasha, you better wake up."

"Emma is already dead."

"Your endorsements, your Ivy League scout offers, your invitations from international dance companies, and our family's academy franchise contractsthey are all still on the line."

Natashas voice shook.

"That was Emmas life!"

Dad stared at her, his voice freezing cold.

"Her life isn't worth five million dollars in breach of contract fees."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Mom picked the gown up from the floor and handed it back to Natasha.

"Your father mortgaged the entire academy for you."

"If we lose this championship, our whole family is ruined."

Natasha looked at her and suddenly let out a bitter laugh.

"So Emma deserved to die?"

Moms eyes flickered with guilt, but she quickly hardened her face.

"She danced in your shadow for so many years. Carrying this for you one last time is the least she can do to repay us for raising her."

I thought ghosts couldn't feel pain.

But at that moment, it felt like a knife was being driven into my chest all over again.

Natasha didn't change into the dress.

She threw the expensive white tulle gown straight into the trash can.

In the next second, Dad grabbed her by the hair, forcing her face down toward the trash.

"Pick it up."

Natasha bit her lip hard. "No."

Dad leaned down and whispered in her ear:

"If you dare disobey me, I won't even buy Emma a niche in the columbarium."

Natasha froze. "What do you mean?"

Dad let go of her and slowly adjusted his cuffs.

"The dead are the most obedient."

"Once they are turned to ash, where they go and how they are kept is entirely up to the living."

Natasha finally bent her knees and pulled the gown out of the trash.

Her tears dripped onto the white fabric, one by one.

Standing next to her, I finally understood.

They didn't just want to steal my dancing. They wanted to steal my death.

The next day, videos of the competition were all over YouTube.

The top comments under the videos were all expressing pity for Natasha:

"A prodigys night of glory ruined by her mentally unstable twin sister who stole her costume."

"Natasha's breakdown on stage was clearly a PTSD response."

"The worst pain is being hurt by your own family."

My face in the videos was heavily blurred, but my name was dragged through the mud in every comment section.

"Emma is so evil. Was she so jealous of Natasha that she had to steal her identity?"

"I heard she had mental issues since childhood. Her parents did their best raising her. They are saints."

"Natasha is so unlucky. Her injury flared up, and then her sister ruined her career."

Mom scrolled through the comments, letting out a sigh of relief.

"The public is sensible after all."

Natasha sat at the dining table. The bowl of oatmeal in front of her had already gone completely cold.

She suddenly asked, "Where did those medical records come from?"

Dad threw a stack of documents onto the table. "Don't worry about it."

Natasha picked them up and flipped through them.

Age ten: Personality disorder.

Age twelve: Aggressive tendencies.

Age fifteen: Delusional desire to replace Natasha.

Age eighteen: Severe mental instability, long-term custody recommended.

Every page was stamped and signed by a doctor.

But I had never been to those hospitals. The only clinic I ever visited was orthopedics.

Because of fluid in my knees, torn ankle ligaments, back spasms, and my right foot that had never properly healed after the car crash when I was seven.

Natasha flipped to the end and suddenly stopped.

An old X-ray folder had been removed, leaving only the empty manila envelope.

On the cover, it read: Emma, Age 7, Shattered Right Ankle.

Natasha stared at those words, her fingers tightening.

"Where is this X-ray?"

Moms expression shifted. "Lost it a long time ago."

Natasha looked up. "Why is this the only one that's lost?"

Dad said coldly, "Natasha, that is none of your concern right now."

Mom shoved a script in front of her. "We are recording a statement video this afternoon. Read exactly what is written here."

Natasha looked at the first line, and her hands began to tremble.

"Emma had been mentally unstable for a long time. On the day of the event, she stole my costume and snuck onto the stage, leading to the tragic accident."

She kept reading.

"In my state of extreme shock and grief, I mistook her toxic, pathological obsession with me for family coercion."

"Please do not blame my parents. They are the ones hurting the most."

Natasha laughed, though tears streamed down her face. "You two are disgusting."

Dad raised his hand to strike her.

This time, Natasha didn't dodge. Instead, she leaned into his hand.

"Do it. Slap me hard. Make sure it's swollen so the media can get a clear shot of it this afternoon."

Dad's hand stopped in mid-air. Mom looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"Natasha, do you really want to fight us?"

Natasha glared at them. "I want to hold a funeral for Emma."

"Absolutely not," Mom refused instantly.

"The media is watching us. If we hold a funeral, everyone will start asking questions."

"Asking what?" Natasha's voice was freezing.

"Asking why the dead one wasn't me?"

Silence fell over the dining room like a tomb.

Dad threw a sealed plastic bag onto the table.

Inside were my old pointe shoes from the stage.

The satin was worn through at the toes, and the ribbons were stained with dried, dark blood.

"Emma's things are all in here," Dad said.

"If you cooperate, we will give her a quiet, clean memorial."

"If you don't, these things, along with her ashes, will be dumped in the trash."

Natasha reached out to grab the shoes.

But Dad pressed his hand flat over the bag. "Record the video first."

At three in the afternoon, the camera turned on.

Natasha wore a plain white sweater, her face completely pale.

Mom stood behind the camera, holding up the script.

Dad stood beside her, clutching my pointe shoes in his hand.

Natasha stared at the lens for a long time.

So long that Mom muttered impatiently, "Speak."

Natasha finally opened her mouth.

"I am Natasha."

"The girl who died on stage last night was my twin sister, Emma."

Our parents' faces twisted instantly.

Natasha continued:

"She wasn't crazy."

"And she didn't steal my identity."

"She"

Dad slammed the power strip off, and the screen cut to black.

What they didn't know was that before the recording, Natasha had used an old phone hidden in her sleeve to log into my burner account and start a live stream.

So, those twelve seconds still made it to the internet.

It wasn't on Natasha's verified account.

It was on a burner account I had helped her register three years ago, linked to an old email our parents knew nothing about.

I had once written the password at the very bottom of her notes app, hidden under a childish title:

For when you want to tell the truth.

Back then, she had asked me why I made it.

I told her, "Because one day, you'll want to run away."

She hadn't answered me then.

But she remembered.

Unfortunately, this time, she still didn't get to finish her sentence.

My parents fought back quickly.

They spin-doctored Natashas short video, presenting it as "evidence of post-traumatic dissociation."

Mom sat in front of the camera, crying so hard she almost fainted.

"We had two daughters. One is gone, and the other has lost her mind."

"Please, stop triggering Natasha."

"Emma had been obsessed with mimicking her sister since she was a child, fantasizing that she was the real Natasha."

"As parents, we did everything we could."

Dad also appeared on screen, his eyes red.

"Emma was our child. We don't blame her."

"She is gone now. Please, let her rest in peace."

Watching the screen, I felt so disgusted I wanted to throw up.

They refused to even give me a funeral, yet they preached about letting me rest in peace on camera.

The internet quickly turned.

"The parents are so tragic."

"Natasha is clearly not mentally stable right now."

"Emma is still torturing her family even after she's dead. How horrifying."

Natasha was locked in her bedroom.

Her phone, laptop, door lock, and window latches were all confiscated.

She was trapped in a room, just like I used to be.

Except her room had a bed, warm meals, and bright lights.

My old roomthe basement studiohad nothing but mirrors and a barre.

That night, Natasha went down to the basement for the first time.

Her hands shook violently as she picked the lock with a hairpin.

I followed her down.

When the light clicked on, she froze.

There were still dried blood stains on the wooden floor from my intense training sessions.

My worn-out knee pads were piled in the corner.

Next to the mirror, a yellowed training schedule was taped to the wall.

6:00 AM: Cardio.

8:00 AM: Flexibility.

10:00 AM: Routine drills.

2:00 PM: Full run-through.

9:00 PM: Weight check.

The last column read: "Three days before the competition: Limit food intake to match Natasha's weight."

Natasha reached out to touch the paper, her fingers trembling.

She suddenly crouched down and pried a tiny SD card out of a crack in the floorboards.

I stared in shock. I had hidden that.

A long time ago, I knew they would eventually discard me.

I didn't have the courage to run, and I had nowhere to go.

So, I secretly recorded every forced training session, every injury, and every time Mom screamed that I was "worthless," saving them on that card.

I had planned to mail it to Christine after the competition.

But I never made it.

Natasha clutched the SD card in her palm and whispered, "Emma, I found it."

Just as she stood up, the basement light at the top of the stairs suddenly brightened.

Mom stood there, her face deathly pale. "What is in your hand?"

Natasha hid her hand behind her back.

Mom shrieked, "Give it to me!"

Natasha turned to run.

But Dad rushed down the stairs, catching her in a tight grip.

The SD card slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

Mom instantly stepped on it with a loud crunch.

The tiny card was crushed to pieces under her heel.

Natasha stared blankly at the shattered plastic. The last bit of light in her eyes died.

Mom wasn't done. She slapped Natasha hard across the face.

"You've been completely corrupted by that parasite."

Natasha slowly raised her head. "She wasn't a parasite."

Mom screamed:

"Yes, she was!"

"Since the day she was born, she dragged you down."

"If it weren't for her, our family would have had only one perfect, prodigy daughter!"

Natasha suddenly asked, "So the car accident when we were seven... did you plan that too?"

Moms voice cut off instantly. Dad's face twisted in shock.

I froze as well. The car accident?

Natasha stared dead into Moms eyes.

"I saw Emma's old X-ray records today."

"A shattered right ankle."

"She couldn't put full pressure on her right foot after that, yet you told her she was naturally unfit for public competitions."

"I always thought it was just an accident."

Moms lips turned white. Dad interrupted harshly:

"Natasha! Have you lost your mind?"

Natasha laughed. "I guess it wasn't an accident after all."

Standing in the cold basement, I felt my entire world turn to ice.

So my life in the shadows wasn't just bad luck. It was meticulously orchestrated by them from the very beginning.

Christine arrived the next day.

She didn't bring flowers. She brought a cease-and-desist letter and a voice recorder.

Mom blocked the doorway, forcing a polite smile.

"Christine, Natasha is not feeling well lately. She's not fit to receive visitors."

Christine stared at her coldly.

"I'm not here to see Natasha."

"I'm here to ask about Emma."

Mom's smile instantly stiffened.

Christine opened her phone, showing a screenshot of the backstage footage from the night of the competition.

Though the video was blurry, it clearly showed the dancer's right ankle buckling outward upon landing.

"Natasha doesn't have an old injury in her right ankle," Christine said. "But Emma does."

Moms face went cold. "What are you implying?"

"I am implying that I suspect you have been running a long-term identity fraud scheme in these competitions."

Dad walked out of the living room. "Christine, watch your mouth."

Christine didn't back down.

"I have already petitioned the committee to retrieve the full backstage security footage."

Dad smiled faintly.

"Feel free to try."

"But I heard there was a power surge backstage that night, and most of the video files were corrupted."

Christine's expression tightened.

Dad stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You have your own dance company, and you have students."

"Slandering an international champion won't do you any good."

Christine glared at him. "Do you really think the dead leave no evidence?"

Dad remained silent, but Mom let out a cold sneer.

"Of course the dead don't."

"Only the living have voices. Only the living make evidence."

A muffled banging noise came from upstairs. Natasha was throwing herself against her bedroom door.

"Christine!"

"The basement! They destroyed the evidence in the basement!"

Dad's face darkened instantly. He turned to head upstairs.

Christine suddenly raised her voice:

"Natasha! I hear you!"

"And I will remember Emma's name!"

Those words made Natasha quiet down, and they made me want to cry.

It turned out that having someone remember your name was such a difficult thing.

After Christine left, Dad called a crew to tear down the basement that very night.

The mirrors were carted away, the barres were unscrewed, and the floorboards were pried up.

My blood stains, the training schedules, and my old knee pads were all stuffed into black trash bags.

Mom stood by, urging them, "Hurry up."

"The media is coming tomorrow morning to film Natasha's recovery documentary."

Dad frowned. "We can't keep the ashes either."

Natasha stood at the top of the stairs, her face losing all color.

"You promised you would let her have a proper burial."

Mom avoided her gaze.

Dad said:

"Keeping them is a liability."

"Scatter them. Keep it clean."

Natasha rushed down the stairs to grab the urn.

Dad shoved her away.

She crashed against the wall, wincing in pain, but she desperately locked her hands around the cuff of his pants.

"Don't touch her."

Dad looked down at her. There was no fatherly affection in his eyesonly disgust.

"If you keep fighting me, I will make sure she doesn't even have a place to rest."

Natashas grip slowly loosened.

She watched Dad lock my cremation urn inside the wall safe.

The electronic lock clicked shut.

Dad said, "We will dispose of it after the award ceremony."

My ashes had become their final hostage.

Late that night, Natasha quietly opened the sealed bag containing my pointe shoes.

She clutched them to her chest, sobbing for hours. Then, she suddenly stopped.

When her fingers brushed the heel of the left shoe, she paused.

Those shoes were never used on stage again; I had hidden them in the deepest corner of the basement.

I had gathered all my secret videos from my old phone, camera cards, and the basement computer.

Before the finals, I had copied everything onto a micro SD card, sealed it in a waterproof capsule, stuffed it into the hollow heel of my left pointe shoe, and hand-stitched it shut with thick thread.

Because I knew those shoes were the only things my parents would never try to sell, exhibit, or use to promote Natasha's glory.

Natasha used to help me mend my shoes when we were kids.

She could feel the difference immediately.

At that moment, her eyes turned fiercely red.

"Emma... you left a way out after all."