My Sister Is the Butcher

When the icy water enveloped me, I still thought it was Sandra's prank, who's my sister. She stood by the bathtub, curls draped over her shoulders, clutching the bath ball I had just bought. When she smiled, her dimples were exactly like mine, but there wasn't a trace of warmth in her eyes. "Amanda, why mom always praises you?" She bent over, her fingers skimming the water's surface, stirring tiny ripples. I tried to lift my head, but my throat was suddenly filled with water, choking me. The suffocating grip clutched my heart instantly. I waved my hand to push her away, but she didn't move an inch. Her knees pressed against my chest with such force, it felt like my ribs would snap. "You've taken too much." She leaned close to my ear, her voice barely a whisper, "My room, my certificate, and our mother's love." Before losing consciousness, I caught the madness in her eyes. When I came to again, there was a sharp pain. Not the suffocation of drowning, but the dull ache of bones being cleaved apart. I lay on the cement floor of the basement, Sandra holding a bloodstained saw, some parts of my body scattered on the ground. Her white dress was splattered with red, like a bed of rotten flowers in full bloom. "By doing so, you'll never be able to take my thing again." She crouched down and poked my face with a saw. "Our mother will only ever have one daughter—me." When the darkness surged up, I thought this was the end. The next time I regained consciousness, it was the hum of machines. I was lying inside a transparent capsule, bathed in pale blue light. My body felt as if soaked in warm water, every inch of my skin slowly reconstructing. Through the blur, I saw someone in a white coat standing outside, holding a tablet and recording something. "Neural connection complete, skin tissue regeneration rate at 98%." That voice was soft, carrying a mechanical calmness. When the cabin door opened, I tried moving my fingers. There was sensation at my fingertips; I could feel the bedsheet beneath me, soft as clouds. I looked down at my hand—it was exactly as before, even the burn scar on the web of my fingers from childhood remained. "3D bioprinting technology can replicate every detail of your body." The weird man handed me a set of clothes. "Including memories." I put on the clothes; the person in the mirror was still Amanda, but inside my chest there was no heartbeat, no flutter—only a cold emptiness. Fragmented memories suddenly erupted, like sharp thorns piercing my skin. When we were five, both Sandra and I squeezed onto the tiny bed in the nursery. And mom entered, holding a new doll, but handed it straight to Sandra. "Sandra is fragile; let her play first." She stroked Sandra's hair without so much as a glance at me. I clutched the worn cloth doll tightly, my nails digging into its fabric. At ten, we both were admitted to the top junior high school. Mom bought Sandra a new backpack and dress, but gave me the worn clothes our cousin had outgrown. "Amanda is sensible and doesn't fuss over these things. " She smiled as she spoke, but I clearly saw Sandra's smile hidden behind her back. What hurt me the most was last year's graduation thesis. I stayed up late for three months writing the design proposal, saved it on my computer, ready to submit the next day. When I woke in the morning, the computer had been wiped clean. Sandra took my proposal and spoke confidently at the defense meeting, earning applause from everyone. I rushed over to confront her, but she cried and threw herself into mom's arms. "It was Amanda who asked me to help revise it. She said she was nervous and wanted me to present first." Mom held my hand, her tone reproachful: "Amanda, why are you so immature? Sandra is only trying to help you." That day, I cried on the playground for a long time; the wind dried my tears, leaving only a cold chill on my face. "She's here." The man in the white coat suddenly spoke, pointing out the window. I walked to the window and saw Sandra's car parked below. She carried shopping bags, humming as she entered the stairwell, a complete contrast to the madness she displayed the day of the dismemberment. As the door opened, she saw me, and the bags in her hands clattered to the floor. The fruit rolled across the floor; the apple came to a stop at my feet. Her face instantly drained of color, lips trembling: "You... you should be dead!" I looked at her, slowly curling my lips into a smile—the same way she used to smile at me: "Oh, dear sister, I missed you."