When My Breath Faded, She finally Cried

My mother took my life just to please my stepfather.

My stepfathers son saw the robot-shaped inhaler I used to save my life during asthma attacks. He cried and demanded to have it.

My stepfather glanced at my mother. Without hesitation, she turned around and snatched the robot from my hands.

Mom

Before I could finish, the air in my throat was cut off.

The boy pushed me to the ground. I desperately clawed at my pocket, trying to reach my emergency spray.

"Faking it again," my stepfather sneered. "Girls are always so dramatic."

My mothers face flushed with instant embarrassment. She snatched my spray and threw it hard onto the floor.

"Can you stop acting for once?! Just give me some peace!"

I curled up on the cold floor, my chest feeling as if it were being crushed by a giant fist. I couldn't draw a single breath.

"Its just a toy. It belongs to your little brother now."

She turned around to comfort the crying boy.

She never looked back.

My consciousness began to fade.

"Mom, I'm sorry."

"I shouldn't have fought with Leo."

"Please don't let Richard think you love me more than him."

It felt as if my entire windpipe was being squeezed shut from the inside.

I knelt on the floor, my fingers clawing at my throat, my nails digging deep into my skin. But nothing came out. My chest felt like it was stuffed with red-hot iron, burning and exploding from the inside.

I wanted to cry out for my mom. My mouth opened, but only faint gasps escaped. No air went in.

Leo stood in front of me, cradling the robot inhaler in his arms. It had a white plastic shell and a blue breathing light on its belly.

I had charged it for two hours last night. Now, the blue light blinked in his hands, casting a rhythmic glow.

He looked down at me, his lips curving into a smirk.

"Stella, youre faking it, right? My mom said you love to play pretend."

He held the robot high, waving it toward his father. "Dad, look! It lights up!"

Richard was leaning back on the sofa, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He didnt even raise his eyelids. "Alright, bring it over. Let Dad have a look."

Leo ran past me, the toe of his shoe scraping my arm. I collapsed sideways onto the floor, my head hitting the tile with a dull thud. It hurt. But compared to the suffocating agony in my chest, this pain was nothing.

I crawled on the floor, my fingers stretching forward. The blue spray bottle was lying next to the table leg, having slipped out of my pocket when I was pushed. It was less than three steps away.

I crawled one step closer.

Richards foot extended, kicking the spray deep under the sofa.

"Still acting," he exhaled a cloud of smoke, ashes falling onto the floor. "Girls are so dramatic. Leo, don't learn from your sister. Shes always putting on a show."

Leo giggled.

My fingers couldn't reach the spray anymore. The dust from under the sofa billowed out, coughing into my nose. I coughed once, then twice, and each cough squeezed my remaining airway even tighter.

"Mom."

"Mom, please look at me."

My mother walked out of the kitchen, holding a plate of sliced apples. Seeing me sprawled on the floor, her eyebrows knitted together. I knew that look too wellit wasn't worry. It was annoyance.

"Stella, what is it this time?"

I couldn't speak. I pointed toward the bottom of the sofa, my fingers trembling violently.

Leo spoke up first. "Mom, Stella said she wants her robot back. But you just gave it to me."

His voice was soft, his eyes wide as he looked at my mother. I could never master that innocent expression. I only knew how to stay silent, keep my head down, and say "Im fine."

My mother set the plate of apples on the coffee table, then bent down to lift Leo onto her lap.

He leaned into her chest, the robot resting on his knees, its blue light flashing.

"Stella, youre fifteen years old," my mother scolded. "Stealing things from a five-year-old child? Have you no shame?"

My finger was still pointing under the sofa.

"Mom, the spray. Its under there."

"Here we go again," Richard stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. "Every time things don't go her way, she plays dead on the floor.

Your mother might tolerate this, but I won't. If you want to lie there, go ahead. Just don't ruin our dinner."

He stood up, took a slice of apple, and stuffed it into his mouth.

As he walked past me, his foot kicked my leg, telling me to get out of the way.

My leg was shoved aside, and it slowly curled back. It wasn't by choice; my body was shaking uncontrollably.

My mother glanced at me.

Just one glance.

Then she turned her head back, feeding an apple slice to Leo and wiping the juice from his chin with a tissue.

"Mom, isn't Stella going to eat dinner?" Leo asked.

"Ignore her," my mothers voice came from the kitchen as she set the table. "When she gets hungry enough, shell crawl up on her own."

"When I get hungry enough, I'll crawl up on my own."

I lay on the cold tiles, the chill seeping into my bones. Outside, the sky was still bright. It was a summer evening, and the setting sun bathed the living room in a warm, golden hue.

On the TV stand sat a framed family portraitRichard, my mother, and Leo. The three of them, smiling perfectly.

Without me.

That photo was taken last Christmas.

That day, my mother made me wear a bright red sweater, saying it looked festive.

I put it on. But when we arrived at the photo studio, Richard saw me and frowned. "Why did she come too?"

My mother said nothing.

The photographer told the mother and son to lean closer. The father wrapped his arm around the mother, and the son stood in front.

I stood on the very edge. The photographer said, "Sweetie, move closer to the center." My mother replied, "No need. Just take it like this."

The shutter clicked, and I was cropped out.

The savory scent of dinner drifted over.

Baked lobster, Tomahawk steak, salad, and clam chowder.

Everything Leo loved.

He was a picky eater, so my mother always cooked to his tastes.

I wasn't picky. I could eat anything. Or eat nothing at all.

The clanking of the spatula against the pan, the clinking of silverware, the sound of Leos voice, and Richards laughter.

My mother said, "Leo, eat more meat. Look how thin you are."

Richard said, "Don't just eat meat. Have some veggies too."

Leo said, "Dad, I want some soup."

My mother said, "I'll get it for you, sweetie."

I lay on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold tiles, staring at the apple peels near the table leg.

It had been a very long time since anyone had served me soup.

The blockage in my airway remained.

Inhaling felt like someone scraping the inside of my throat with sandpaper. Exhaling sounded like a slow leak.

I tried to take a deep breath. A sharp, whistling sound came from my throat, thin and high, like a dying bird.

No one heard.

Or perhaps they heard, but nobody cared.

I closed my eyes and buried my face in my arms.

The tiles were freezing, but my tears were hot. When they rolled onto the floor, they immediately turned cold.

I struggled to open my eyes and saw that my fingernails had turned a dark purple, as if they had been pinched.

When I used to have attacks, my mother would panic.

She would scramble through the nightstand to find my inhaler, pressing it against my lips with shaking hands.

She would hold me and whisper, "Its okay, it's okay. Mom is here."

But that was a long time ago.

Back then, there was no Richard, no Leo, and no family portrait.

Back then, she still called me Starry.

Dinner was over.

Leo jumped off the sofa and ran to the TV stand, standing on his tiptoes to turn on the television.

The loud, high-pitched voices of a cartoon filled the room.

Suddenly, he seemed to remember something. He turned and walked over.

Lying on the floor, I heard the slap-slap of his slippers getting closer.

"Stella."

He squatted down, bringing his face close to mine. A five-year-olds face, pale and round.

He tilted his head, looking at me with a serious expression, as if examining an injured cat.

"Stella, are you really dead?"

I didn't move. Not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't.

The fire in my chest was still burning, and every breath felt like swallowing shards of glass.

He reached out and poked my cheek.

"Get up and play with me."

His finger was warm, smelling of sweet apples.

I still didn't move.

He stood up and stepped on my hair.

Not hard, just a testing tap, like stepping on an object to see what it was.

Then he ran away, his slippers pitter-pattering as the cartoon continued to blare.

A moment later, Richard walked over.

His leather slippers made a creaking sound against the floor.

He stood over me, looking down, the smell of cigarette smoke washing over me.

"Still lying there?"

He nudged my shoulder with the toe of his shoe. I wobbled slightly but didn't move.

He squatted, grabbed my collar, and yanked me up from the floor.

My upper body left the ground, my collar choking my neck. My windpipe, already blocked, was completely squeezed shut.

My mouth hung open, like a fish gasping on dry land.

He let go.

I crashed back onto the floor. The back of my head hit the tiles, and my vision went white.

"Fine. If you love lying down so much, go lie outside."

He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the front door.

My back scraped against the floor, my shirt bunching up, leaving my skin to rub directly against the tiles.

It hurt, but it didn't matter anymore.

He opened the door and shoved me out.

My forehead struck the doorframe with a dull thud.

Warm blood trickled down from above my eyebrow, flowing into my eye, turning the world red.

The door shut.

With a click.

The light came on. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, I saw a thin strip of warm yellow light casting onto the back of my hand.

From inside came Leos laughter, the cartoon characters chatting, Richard saying, "Hand Dad the remote," and my mother saying, "Leo, turn off the TV, its time for your bath."

I lay outside the door.

The autumn night wind swept through the hallway, blowing over me.

I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and goosebumps broke out across my arms.

It wasn't cold. Or maybe I was past the point of cold, unable to feel it anymore.

The blood on my forehead kept flowing, running down my cheek and into my ear, sticky and warm.

I lifted my hand to wipe it, but my arm fell back down halfway, as if the bones had been removed.

I stared at the hallway ceiling.

A fluorescent light bulb hummed softly. A moth rested on it, its shadow cast on the floor, completely still.

The lights inside the apartment went out.

Leo said, "Goodnight, Mom." My mother said, "Make sure you cover yourself up, Leo." Richard said, "Go to sleep early, you have school tomorrow."

Silence fell.

Occasionally, there was the sound of someone tossing in bed, a creak of the mattress, and then silence again.

The pipes gurgled as water ran down from the upper floors. Someone next door was snoring in a rhythmic cadence.

I lay outside the door, watching the moth.

It remained on the bulb, its wings folded, gray and dusty, completely unnoticed.

Just like me.

Inconsequential in life, unnoticed in death.

I didn't know how much time had passed. It could have been midnight, or close to dawn.

The hallway light went out. It was motion-activated, shutting off when no one walked by.

Everything turned pitch black. Even the sliver of light under the door was gone.

I lay in the dark.

My chest didn't hurt as much anymore.

It wasn't getting better; it had just gone numb.

My breathing was still there, but it was shallow and faint, like a thin thread about to snap.

I suddenly remembered something.

Last winter, my mother took me to the hospital for a check-up.

The doctor said my condition couldn't be ignored anymore, and that surgery should be done as soon as possible.

My mother said we had to wait. We had just bought a new apartment, and money was tight.

The doctor warned that if we kept waiting, the next attack could be my last.

My mother nodded and said she understood.

After leaving the hospital, she bought me a glazed donut.

It was covered in sugar, sweet and slightly tart.

She bought one for herself too. We stood at the hospital entrance, eating. Suddenly she smiled and said, "Starry, you loved these when you were little. Youd cry if I didn't buy you one."

I said, "Mom, you still remember."

She said, "Of course I do. You're my baby girl."

That was the last time she called me Starry.

When dawn broke, I was awakened by the sound of footsteps.

Not human footsteps.

It was the rustling of a broom sweeping the floor, rustle, rustle, coming from the end of the hallway.

It was Maria, the building cleaner.

Seeing me, her broom stopped.

"Oh my, why is this child lying here?"

She knelt down and touched the back of my hand to my cheek.

"Shes ice cold."

Her voice changed.

She patted my face, felt my hand, and then stood up, banging on the door.

"Is anyone home?! Your child is lying out here! Come out, quick!"