I was born with a glitch. My brain processed the world slower than other kids, and I had a rare condition that made me a stranger to physical pain. Because of this, I became the family’s designated shock absorber. For sixteen years, I was the human shield for my brother’s mistakes. Every time Ben messed up, I was the one who took the blow. I remember when Ben got caught cheating on a history test. When the school called, my mother spent the entire afternoon lashing me with a leather belt. Even as the skin on my back split and burned, I kept a vacant smile on my face. It didn't hurt, so I didn't cry. Then there was the time Ben stole money from her purse for snacks. She grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head against the drywall. My scalp tore; blood slicked down my neck. I didn't make a sound. Every time Ben saw me battered and bruised because of him, he would collapse into my arms, sobbing, promising he’d be better, promising he’d never get into trouble again. My mother always watched these scenes with a grim sort of satisfaction. She truly believed this was the most effective way to parent—to teach the "good" child through the suffering of the "broken" one. Everything changed during the last round of midterms. Ben’s ranking dropped by exactly one spot. My mother called him over, her face a mask of cold fury. Then, out of pure habit, she swung her hand at me. That single slap sent me reeling. The back of my head clipped the sharp, brass corner of the sideboard. I hit the floor, and a dark, warm pool began to spread across the hardwood. Through the hazy veil of my vision, I saw her grab Ben. He was screaming, his heart breaking, but she just nodded, satisfied. "That’s enough," she told him. "Stop crying. She’s had her punishment. Let’s go out and get something nice to eat. It'll settle your nerves." I watched their retreating figures, my eyelids growing heavy. For the first time in my life, I thought I felt something. A dull, throbbing thrum. I told myself I had to get better quickly. Because the next time Ben messed up, he was going to need me. ... 1 When I opened my eyes again, I was hovering near the ceiling. Below me, a cold, stiff version of myself lay on the floor. A dark, dried crust had formed beneath the back of my head. I knew then. I was dead. The strange thing was, even as a ghost, I still couldn't feel any pain. I floated toward the front door just as my mother was leading Ben back inside. Ben’s face was a ruin of tears and snot, his eyes darting back and forth. My mother gave his arm an impatient tug. "Stop looking over there. She’s fine. It was one slap, for God's sake. Come on, let’s go get that dessert." The door clicked shut. I followed them out. She took him to the boutique bakery downtown, the one with the expensive window displays I’d always peered at. The place was packed. She found a corner table and pushed the menu toward him. "Order whatever you want. It’s on me." Ben stared at the table, his eyes vacant. My mother sighed, her voice softening into a tone she never used at home. "Benny, I know you’re upset. But you have to understand me. Your father ran off with that woman and took every cent we had. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a woman alone?" Ben remained silent. "You’re all I have to show for my life," she continued. "You’re the man of the house. If you don't succeed, who’s going to give me a reason to hold my head up? Look at your sister—can she be counted on for anything? If you make something of yourself, you’ll get your fair share of your father’s estate one day. I lost his heart; I refuse to lose the money, too." She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't blame me for being tough. You two are twins. You’re the same blood. I do this so you’ll remember the cost of failure. It’s the only way you’ll stay hungry for success." Ben gripped the edge of the menu so hard his knuckles turned white. Watching from the air, a lump formed in my non-existent throat. All these years, since the divorce, she had been our everything—mother, father, provider. I was a burden, a slow-witted girl with a medical anomaly. I had cost her so much. I didn't hate her for hitting me. In a twisted way, I was glad I could be useful. If I couldn't make her proud with grades, at least I could be the whetstone that sharpened Ben’s ambition. The waitress brought two drinks. My mother took them, then glanced at the glass display case. "Give me a slice of that strawberry shortcake to go," she called out. She fumbled through her wallet, checking her change, looking relieved when she had enough. She muttered to herself, "I might have gone a bit too far this time. I’ll give her the cake, apologize, and it’ll be fine." Ben snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. I watched her carefully tuck the cake box into a paper bag. Strawberry. My favorite. She remembered. A pang of longing hit me. I wished I could still swallow, just to taste the ghost of that sugar. When we got back to the house, my bedroom door was still closed. My mother stood in the hallway, clearing her throat. Her voice took on that performative, "sweet" quality. "Daisy? You still pouting? I bought you that strawberry cake you like. Come on out." 2 Seconds ticked by. Silence. She waited, her patience thinning. "Look, tomorrow is your and Ben’s birthday. I know I was a little rough yesterday, but you know how I get. I’m leaving the cake by the door. Come out and eat it when you're done acting like a martyr." Nothing. The house felt unnervingly still. She sighed, set the box on the floorboards, and disappeared into the kitchen. Ben stayed in the hallway. He stared at the closed door for a long time. I floated right next to him, wanting to tell him, I’m right here, Ben. I’m okay. But he couldn't see me. He couldn't hear me. That night was a slow torture. I spent it hovering over that strawberry cake, watching the cream start to sink. The next morning, the front door burst open. It was my father. He was carrying two wrapped gifts, a forced smile on his face. "Daisy! Ben! Happy birthday, kids!" My mother walked out of the kitchen, her face instantly hardening. "What are you doing here?" "It’s my kids' birthday. I’m allowed to be here." He set the boxes on the coffee table and looked around. "Where’s Daisy?" She pointed vaguely at my door. "In there. Throwing a tantrum." My father frowned. "What happened this time?" She didn't answer, turning back to the stove. My father’s eyes wandered to the coffee table, landing on Ben’s latest report card. His expression shifted from annoyance to cold realization. "Did you hit her again?" My mother stuck her head out, a sneer on her lips. "None of your business." His voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous heat. "I asked if you hit her." "So what if I did? I’m raising them. You checked out years ago." "Ben screwed up, so you took it out on Daisy? Again?" The fire was lit. She stormed out of the kitchen, hands on her hips. "You don't get to judge me! You're the one who called her a 'liability' during the mediation. You didn't want the slow kid, remember? Now you're playing Father of the Year?" "I was trying to—" "I know exactly what you were doing," she spat. "You’re just terrified I’ll actually raise Ben to be successful enough to claim his inheritance over your other brat." My father’s face went scarlet. "That is bullshit!" They descended into a screaming match, a familiar soundtrack to my childhood. Ben shrunk into the corner, clutching the gift my father had brought, staring at his feet. I hovered between them, trying to bridge the gap, but I was air. I was nothing. As I drifted, my eyes caught a sliver of movement at the bottom of my bedroom door. A thin, dark-red stain had begun to seep out from under the wood, soaking into the hallway carpet. Ben saw it too. He froze. His face went from pale to ghostly white. "Enough!" My father slammed his hand onto the table, rattling the coasters. "I’m taking Daisy with me. Right now. You aren't fit to be a mother." He turned and reached for my door handle. 3 My heart—the ghost version of it—leapt. I tried to block him. If they saw me like that, it would break them. I didn't want them to know. But my mother grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare!" "Watch me!" They scrambled, a mess of limbs and shouting. My father was stronger; he shoved her back and gripped the handle. Suddenly, Ben lunged forward, throwing his body against the door. His voice was cracked, trembling. "Stop it! Just stop!" Both parents froze. Ben’s shoulders were shaking violently, but he kept his voice steady through sheer will. "She’s probably just sleeping. Let her sleep." My mother frowned. "In the middle of the day?" Ben wouldn't look at her. He just stood there like a sentry. My father looked at my mother, then at Ben. Finally, he let go of the handle, his expression icy. "Fine. I won't fight you today. But if anything is wrong with her, Margo, I will ruin you." He slammed the door on his way out. My mother spat a curse, her anger still simmering. She walked over and pounded on my door. "Daisy! Get out here! Stop playing dead! You won't eat your cake, you won't open the door—what the hell do you want from me?" Silence. "Fine! Stay in there forever for all I care!" She huffed, turning to Ben. "And you? Go do your homework. Now!" Ben walked slowly to his room. Before he closed his door, he gave my room one last, haunted look. The house went quiet. My mother sat on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, probably venting to someone on Facebook. I drifted through the ceiling, trying to scream, trying to cry. But ghost tears don't fall; they just dissolve into the ether. I wished I were alive. I missed feeling nothing. Now, I felt everything but the touch of the world. The next afternoon, Ben came home from school. He looked ill. He pulled a graded quiz from his backpack. My mother heard the zipper and emerged from the kitchen. She took the paper, and her face fell. "Another drop? Ben, what is wrong with you?" Ben didn't say a word. He looked like he was made of paper. She slammed the quiz onto the table and marched toward my door. "Daisy, out. Now. Same old story—your brother failed again." Silence. "Daisy!" Still nothing. I was frantic, circling the door, trying to manifest enough energy to turn the lock, to do anything. If she opened the door, she’d see the horror. But if she didn't, who would take Ben’s punishment? Her temper finally snapped. "You think you’re special now? You think you can just ignore me? You think a closed door protects you from a licking? I’ll show you!" She backed up, bracing herself to kick the door in. 4 "Enough, Mom." Ben’s voice was eerily calm. "Daisy’s done enough for me. This time, take it out on me." My mother blinked, stunned. This wasn't the script. Ben was the compliant one. Ben was the prize. Then, she let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Oh, playing the hero now? You think I’m the villain? You think I’m biased?" Ben didn't move. His silence was the final spark. Her face twisted. She went to the laundry room and grabbed the heavy plastic drying rack pole. "Fine. If you want to know what it’s really like, I’ll show you!" The first blow landed across his shoulders. Then another. And another. Ben gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound. Blood began to seep through his school shirt, spotting the floor. I screamed. I lunged at her, trying to grab the pole, but my hands passed through it like smoke. Ben just stood there, taking it. After a dozen strikes, she threw the pole down, panting. "There. You happy now?" Ben didn't answer. He was vibrating with pain, but he remained upright. I was sobbing, hovering inches from his face, begging him to hear me. She grabbed her purse and slammed the front door as she left the house. Ben stood in the silence for a long time. Then, he slowly knelt, picked up the pole, and put it back in the laundry room. I thought he was going for the first-aid kit. Instead, he went to the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a paring knife. He walked to my door. He hesitated for a long beat, his hand on the knob, then he pushed it open. The smell hit the hallway immediately. A heavy, sweet, metallic rot. I looked at my body in the corner. It was beginning to change, the skin darkening, the air around it thick. Ben flinched, but he stepped inside anyway. The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Only the small desk lamp cast a weak glow. He looked at me—the real me—lying on the floor. He sat down beside my corpse. "Daisy," he whispered. I couldn't answer. His shoulders began to heave. "I'm so sorry." "I knew. I knew you were taking the hits for me. I wanted to help, but I was so scared. It hurts so much when she hits." "Every time you got hurt, I told myself I’d be better. But I couldn't get the perfect score. I couldn't be the person she wanted..." "Am I a failure, Daisy?" I shook my head violently. No, Ben. You’re just a boy. You’re just a kid. He couldn't hear me. "When she hit you yesterday... I saw you go down. I thought you were just mad at us. Until I saw the blood under the door." "I killed you. So I’m coming to pay the debt." He smiled, a heartbreaking, shattered expression. I tried to grab the knife, but my fingers were mist. He looked at the framed photo on my nightstand—the two of us at the county fair three years ago. "Wait for me, Daisy." The knife dragged across his wrist. The red was sudden and bright, blooming across his white sleeves. He winced, a small frown of discomfort, and then he leaned his head against my cold shoulder. "It hurts," he whispered. "Daisy... I never knew it hurt this much for you." I knelt beside him, trying to hold him, trying to tell him that for me, it hadn't hurt at all. I tried to plug the wound with my ghostly hands, but the blood just flowed through me. I watched until his breathing became a shallow flutter. Then, silence. Hours later, the front door opened. My mother came in carrying shopping bags and a fresh cake box. She kicked off her shoes, sounding almost hesitant as she called out into the dark house. "Daisy? Ben? Come on, let’s have a real birthday. I bought treats." No one answered. She frowned, setting the bags on the counter. "Daisy? Do you hear me?" When the silence persisted, her irritation returned. She walked to the hallway and pushed the door open. It wasn't locked. It swung wide. The light from the hallway spilled in, hitting the floor. Her face turned to stone.
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