Born As Kidney Donor For My Sister

After Nash exposed my private feelings, the environment at home became so twisted that I couldn’t focus on my studies properly.

Bronx was perplexed and more patient, guiding me through my lessons and encouraging me repeatedly.

But he didn’t know that during those nights. when he was so thoughtfully considering my well–being, I was sinking into dirty mud, repeatedly on the brink of death.

Afterward, Nash pressed me against the window, pointing at Bronx, who had been standing downstairs for I don’t know how long, and mockingly asked if my little boyfriend might suddenly look up.

My resistance only led to more violent treatment, eventually turning into imprisonment. I kept cutting my skin, watching as their indifference and mockery turned into disbelief.

I finally achieved a brief moment of freedom.

But I couldn’t accept being the kind of person who would enjoy Bronx’s care. He came with light and hope, but all he showed me was the hell I was trapped in.

So what did I do? On a warm afternoon, I took Bronx to the very storage room where he had first rescued me, removed my clothes, and showed him the scars on my body and the marks on my chest.

I remember his incredulous expression and the widening of his eyes. I also recall him picking up my coat, silently draping it over me, opening his mouth as if unsure of what to say, then turning and leaving, making sure to close the door behind him.

I didn’t cry; I slowly put my clothes back on.

I knew clearly that there was no longer any possibility between Bronx and me.

I became a person again–studying and walking alone.

It felt as though I had returned to the past. The streetlights were dimmer, and I hadn’t eaten hot dogs since then, and that was all.

He probably doesn’t know that I did well in the SAT and smoothly entered the university he once mentioned.

I traded my own suffering for four years of freedom.

I lived what seemed like a normal life. I saw the ocean, visited the mountains, and even rode in a hot air balloon over the prairie.

I lived with effort.

Perhaps, maybe next time I see Bronx, I can fearlessly tell him everything I went through back then.

I saw Bronx again in my first year of work. My mother called, begging me to come home for a visit because Lydia was bringing her boyfriend, and she wanted everyone to be there.

So I returned to the home I had left five years ago, and amidst the anticipation of my mother, stepfather, and Nash, I saw Bronx walking in with Lydia.

Fortunately, he hadn’t been trapped in that dusty storage room.

But I never had the chance to tell him that I was living well.

I realized why I could never leave; I had a deep obsession with this family.Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

Once again, I loathed being nothing more than a fleeting spirit.

Otherwise, I would have stopped Bronx from opening my diary.

Inside were records of my soul, now as decayed as mud; of my past, filled with shame and scorn; of my past, engraved in my bones and impossible to deceive.

Now, it lay bare before Bronx.

The next morning’s breakfast was prepared by Bronx.

I tried to grasp Bronx’s hand repeatedly, but each time it slipped away.

I had shed this body and was given a chance to start anew.

But you didn’t.

I’m not worthy, Bronx.

I watched him serve the spiced milk to my mother and the others, observing their faces flush, falling to the ground, convulsing, even foaming at the mouth.

I crouched down, watching them in their

final moments: the indifferent mother, the hypocritical stepfather, the selfish Nash, the timid Lydia.

And the sorrowful Bronx.

I stood up and walked toward the door, feeling the bonds of bloodline gradually fade. I was finally free.

I heard Bronx calling my name and looked back.

He approached me, gently took my hand, and led me toward the light.

I also heard my mother and the others calling me, filled with regret and appeasement. I didn’t turn back. Since they never cared about me, there was no need to see them one last time.

I died three times.

On an afternoon at eight, on a winter day in senior year, and on a rainy night at twenty–three.

This time, I was truly free,