In the cold mortuary, the bleak light shone down dazzlingly from above.
The staff urged me again to confirm the identity of the deceased.
Even through the white plastic cloth, just by looking at her outline, I knew that it was my sister.
The sister who was raised in the palm of my hand since childhood, and I would feel extremely guilty if even one of her fingers got hurt.
Three hours ago, she resolutely jumped off the roof and ended her life.
I lifted the corner of the plastic cloth, and her arm was bent at a strange angle, and the blood stains on her skin had dried up.
I used the hem of my shirt to wipe her hand clean, revealing a familiar pentagram birthmark.
My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and I bit my lip tightly to prevent myself from crying out.
After calming down, I turned to the staff and said, "I am Anna, confirming the identity of the deceased, my younger sister Jessica."
I carried my sister's ashes home and stepped on the scattered glass bottles on the ground when I opened the door.
My adoptive father, Jone, was snoring on the sofa. He was either drunk every day or on his way to buy alcohol.
When my sister and I were 4 years old, he adopted us. At that time, he had a stable job and a gentle wife.
We had a happy time together.
But that time was too short.
When we were 8 years old, he was injured in a car accident and could never stand up again.
He began to be moody, losing his temper at will, beating his wife, and also beating me and my sister.
Finally, one day, his wife couldn't stand such a life and left him while he was asleep, taking away the only remaining money in the family.
I understood her, but I couldn't forgive her.
Because of her, Jone's life completely collapsed.
He stayed away from the crowd and drank all day. He made us wear shabby clothes and beg on the street, using the money we earned to buy him alcohol.
We lived like this for ten years.
In order to support my sister's schooling, I dropped out of school to work very early. I was willing to do anything as long as I could make money.
I washed piles of dishes in the back kitchen of a small restaurant because only they were willing to give a job to the tiny me.
I also handed out flyers on the street in the sub-zero temperature from morning to night, but I was even reluctant to buy the cheapest woolen gloves for myself.
Every penny I earned, I would spend it on my sister.
I wanted to buy her the most beautiful schoolbag, the most exquisite skirt, and the most delicious cake.
What I didn't have, my sister must have. I wanted to do my best to lift her up and prevent her from stepping into the mud. I wanted her to live like a princess all her life.
However, now, she has turned into a box of ashes in my arms.
I gently placed my sister on the cabinet at the entrance and walked to the sleeping Jone, saying, "I'm sorry."
Although you always beat us, you didn't abandon us.
Although you brought endless suffering to our lives, you also gave us a home at least.
However, I don't have time, so I can't let you become an obstacle to me.
I changed into a white nightgown, wrapped it with a towel, smashed a few glass bottles, and spread the fragments evenly on the ground.
After doing all this, I picked up a beer bottle and put it in Jone's hand, then held his hand tightly and hit my own head hard.
Jone was awakened by the sound of glass breaking. When he woke up, he found me standing in front of him, covered in blood, like a ghost.
He panicked and shouted, "Help!" He subconsciously pushed me, and I lay on the glass fragments.
To aggravate my injuries, I even rolled around.
While shouting for help loudly, I struggled to crawl out of the door.
Jone subconsciously felt something was wrong, got up on his wheelchair, and chased after me, wanting to ask me what was going on.
So, when all the neighbors opened the door, they saw me covered in wounds and Jone chasing closely behind me.
After the police arrived, they saw my miserable state and collected testimonies from the surrounding neighbors.
Almost immediately, they convicted Jone and took him into the police car.
Even though he shouted his innocence at the top of his lungs, no one believed him.
The neighbor grandma hugged me in her arms: "Good child, rest assured, all the bad things have passed."
How could it be over?
I held a crumpled photo tightly in my hand.
This photo was taken from my sister's tightly clenched fist in the mortuary.
She didn't let it go until the last moment of her life.
I sat at the desk, turned on the desk lamp, and patiently unfolded the photo in my hand, smoothing the wrinkles over and over again. The photo showed a handsome man in a suit, with thick brown hair and deep green eyes. He smiled at the camera, full of vigor and elegance.
This person is the well-known real estate tycoon Aaron, who has frequently appeared in financial news and gossip magazines.
He has as many great achievements as his romantic scandals.
And my sister wrote five full diaries, every word expressing her love for him.
He is the high-ranking president, and she is just a humble intern assistant.
But one day, the king lowered his noble head, and this silly girl easily gave herself away.
But after a night of passion, Aaron immediately distanced himself from her.
She was angry and questioned him in public, but all she got was his indifference and the wanton humiliation from others.
"She wouldn't really think that the president would like her, would she?"
"Don't make fun of her. She might have some kind of mental illness, like delusion?"
"Doesn't she have a mirror at home?"
...
No matter at school or in the company, everywhere she went, she heard others mocking her for her overreach.
Were those lingering love words by the pillow all lies?
From the beginning to the end, was I the only one who was in love?
But he clearly said that I was different...
"Living is really tiring. I want to go to a world without him."
This was the last sentence in the diary.
Aaron.
I pointed at his face with my finger, again and again.
"I swear here that you will become the only meaning of my life for the rest of my life."