I was 18 years old when my mother wheeled me toward an operating room and told me that wanting to stay alive was selfish. By then, I had spent my entire childhood learning one rule: my body belonged to my sister before it belonged to me. But as the fluorescent lights passed above my face that morning, one after another, I finally understood something nobody in my family had ever allowed me to say aloud.

Three days later, St. Catherine’s Memorial Chapel was filled to capacity.

The smell of lilies and melting wax was so thick it was sickening. Over two hundred people packed the velvet pews—doctors in pristine suits, hospital board members, local politicians, and wealthy donors who wanted to show their support for the tragic, grieving Dr. Margaret Wells.

At the front of the chapel stood an open mahogany casket surrounded by banks of white roses.

Inside the casket lay my body.

The hospital mortician had done a terrible job. They had tried to hide my hollow cheeks with thick layers of pink blush, but under the bright chandeliers, I looked like a painted porcelain doll. My hands were folded neatly over my chest, covering the deep purple track marks on my wrists.

My mother sat in the front pew, wearing a black designer dress and a heavy lace veil. Beside her sat my father, Thomas, wiping a fake tear from his eye with a silk handkerchief.

And beside him sat Claire.

Claire looked radiant. The bone marrow harvest had been a resounding success. Her cheeks were flushed with healthy pink color, her brown eyes bright, her breathing clear and strong.

My blood was running through her veins. My marrow was producing her new life. She was thriving on my corpse.

I stood right beside my own casket, unseen by the crowd, watching my family perform their tragic play.

My mother stood up and walked slowly to the podium. She held a crisp sheet of paper in her hand, her posture stoops just enough to make her look like a broken, grieving mother, yet noble in her sorrow.

"Thank you all for coming today," my mother began, her voice quivering with practiced perfection. "Emily was... a quiet child. A sweet child. From the day she was born, she possessed a spirit of profound selflessness."

I let out a bitter, cold laugh that made the candles on the altar flicker violently.

"She knew her sister was fighting a terrible illness," my mother continued, dabbing her eye with a tissue. "And when the time came, Emily willingly offered herself. She gave everything she had so that Claire might live. As a physician, I fought with every tool at my disposal to save my youngest daughter... but God had other plans."

A low murmur of sympathetic weeping broke out among the guests in the pews.

"What a saint," a woman behind my mother whispered. "To lose a daughter while saving another. Dr. Wells is a true hero."

"She willingly offered herself," I repeated my mother's words, my ghostly voice dripping with toxic fury.

I looked at the shadow lurking in the corner of the ceiling.

Feed on truth, the voice reminded me in my mind.

I closed my ghostly eyes and focused all my hatred, all my memory of that terrifying morning, into the chapel’s state-of-the-art audiovisual system.

Suddenly, the soft organ music coming from the speakers cut out with a violent burst of static.

BZZZZZZT!

The large digital projectors mounted on the chapel walls—which were supposed to display a slideshow of my childhood photos—flashed bright red.

My mother stopped speaking, frowning as she looked up at the screens.

The audio speakers let out a sharp screech, and then a recording began to play—crisp, clear, and uncompressed—echoing through every corner of the chapel.

It was the audio feed from Operating Room 4, captured by the automated surgical recorder my mother had forgotten to turn off.

"Mom... please don't do this..." my voice echoed from the speakers, filled with absolute terror.

The entire chapel went dead silent.

"If Claire hadn't been sick, Emily," my mother’s cold voice boomed across the sanctuary, "you wouldn't even be here. The least you can do is remember why you exist."

Gasps erupted from the pews.

My mother’s face turned from pale to ash-gray in less than two seconds. She dropped her speech paper, her hands flying to her mouth. "Turn it off! Turn that off right now!"

My father jumped out of his seat, frantically looking around for the sound booth.

But the recording didn't stop.

"How long has the monitor been flat?" my mother’s recorded voice asked calmly.

"At least twelve minutes!" Dr. Chen’s voice replied from the speakers. "We need to begin CPR immediately! Get the paddles!"

"Stop, Robert... Emily was created for a specific biological purpose. Her body has fulfilled that purpose."