After My Sister Jumped

The treadmill's belt turned at a steady pace, emitting a dull, grinding sound. I fixed my gaze on the numbers pulsing on the electronic screen before me, sweat trickling down my temple, dripping onto the anti-slip mat, spreading a small, dark stain. My heart rate stabilizes at one hundred and twenty beats per minute; a familiar soreness settles in my muscles—this is the habit I have sustained for five years. Only through the utmost physical exhaustion do the violent impulses lurking deep within my heart briefly recede. The smartwatch on my wrist suddenly vibrated, breaking the gym's steady cadence of measured breaths and clanging equipment. I lifted my hand to stop the treadmill; my fingertip swept across the screen, revealing the caller ID: the home landline. My brow creased barely noticeably. At this hour, usually only the nanny is at home, unless some urgent matter arises. "Hello." My voice carried the faint breathlessness of recent exertion, yet still retained its customary coldness. Silence lingered for several seconds before Nanny Zimmerman's voice broke through, trembling with sobs: "Eldest Miss... something terrible... Second Miss... she... she's in trouble..." My heart sank sharply, as though seized by an invisible hand, making even breath feel tight and labored. "What happened? Speak clearly." "Second Miss... she jumped from the building... The ambulance just took her away, the doctor said... said she's not going to make it..." Nanny Zimmerman's voice came in broken fragments, each word like a sharp icicle piercing deep into my heart. "What did you say?" I could scarcely believe my ears; my fingertips trembled uncontrollably, and the mobile phone nearly slipped from my grasp. Stella Sue, my sister—the little girl who always looked at me with clear eyes and softly called me "Older Sister"—how could she... Memories surged forth—when she was little, trailing behind me, shyly tugging at my clothes, saying, "Older Sister, don't be angry, I have candy for you." In middle school, she placed a test paper with a perfect score before me, her eyes filled with the longing for my praise. Last month, on my birthday, she personally knitted me a scarf, saying, "Older Sister, wear this in winter, and you won't feel cold." She was the only light in my life, the only person who could suppress the violent impulses within me. How could she have suddenly jumped from the building? A surge of overwhelming rage and sorrow swept through me at once, as though a fierce fire blazed within my chest. Those violent impulses I had desperately tried to suppress began to stir uncontrollably, striving to break free from the bounds of reason. I could feel my gaze shifting; once calm, my pupils now swirled with a terrifying fury, my knuckles pale from gripping too tightly. Those around me noticed my change and cast curious glances my way. I drew a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. This was not the time to lose control; Stella Sue was still in the hospital, and I had to get there immediately. I quickly ended the call, grabbed the towel beside me to wipe the sweat from my face, then took up my gym bag and hurried toward the gym's entrance. My footsteps quickened; each step felt as if I were treading on the very edge of a blade, the pain in my chest growing ever more acute. Just as I was about to exit the gym, my mobile phone vibrated again—a new WeChat message. I opened it to find the sender was "Lillian," Stella Sue's close friend, Lillian Cooper. The message read: "Diana, I heard Stella had an accident. Please don't be too upset. I'm hurrying to the hospital now. We'll talk when we get there." Several crying-face emojis followed at the end. As I read the message, a cold smile curved the corner of my mouth. Sad? If Lillian were truly sorrowful for Stella Sue, she would not have sent such a light and careless message. I had long sensed that something was amiss with Lillian. Whenever she was with Stella Sue, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of jealousy and calculation lingered in her eyes. Furthermore, she grew unnaturally close to my so-called "father," Grant Cooper. I had warned Stella Sue before, telling her to keep her distance from Lillian, but Stella Sue always naively replied, "Lillian is a good person; Older Sister, you are overthinking." Now that Stella Sue is in trouble, Lillian was the first to send such hollow words of comfort; it surely means more than it appears. I did not reply to Lillian Cooper's message; I simply slipped the mobile phone into my pocket and quickened my pace as I left the gym.