Chapter 6: Motel Memories

At the hotel.

The scratchy motel sheets smelled like cheap detergent and old cigarettes. I wrapped myself in them anyway, pretending they were armor.

Standing in front of the mirror, I carefully wiped the blood from my forehead.

I used the corner of a pillowcase to dab at the wound, wincing with each touch.

The wound was big—a single band-aid couldn’t cover it at all.

I rummaged through my suitcase for a scarf and wrapped it around my head like a makeshift bandage.

But it was so late, I didn’t dare leave the room to buy bandages.

The vending machines in the hallway didn’t sell anything but chips and soda. I didn’t trust the front desk clerk not to stare.

Usually, I never got enough sleep.

I’d toss and turn, watching car headlights sweep across the ceiling. Even the hum of the mini fridge couldn’t lull me to sleep tonight.

But tonight, maybe because of the stinging pain, I couldn’t sleep at all.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Rachel’s face, or Jason’s cold stare, or the blood dripping onto the kitchen floor.

I couldn’t remember why I was sent overseas in the first place.

The memories felt scrambled, like someone else’s dreams.

All I remembered was that since childhood, my sister was always smarter and better than me.

She won spelling bees, got lead roles in the school play, and posed for every family Christmas card with perfect posture.

Wherever she went, she shone.

Teachers loved her, neighbors gushed about her, even the cashier at the grocery store knew her by name.

So my parents placed all their hopes on her.

It wasn’t even a secret—my mom called her "our little star" in front of everyone.

My sister became a child model at a very young age, and later, with her beauty and perfect-student image, became a celebrity.

Her face ended up on toothpaste commercials and community theater posters. People recognized her at the mall.

As for me, apart from being as pretty as she was, I was useless at everything else.

I never got the hang of piano lessons or soccer practice. My trophies were all for "participation."

So I understood my parents’ favoritism.

I didn’t blame them. Rachel was the safe bet.

I agreed with their decision to give more resources to my capable sister.

I cheered her on at recitals, watched from the sidelines, clapping louder than anyone else.

But was that favoritism the reason they sent me overseas?

I pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to piece together the missing years.

I remembered swallowing handfuls of pills and undergoing painful treatments abroad. My mom told me over the phone that it would make me smarter.

She’d call at odd hours, voice tinny with static, promising that this time it would work.

But I always felt that after coming back, my mind worked even worse.

Some days I couldn’t remember what month it was, let alone my own birthday.

Besides being sleepy, my reactions were slower.

I’d blank out during conversations, only realizing minutes later that someone had asked me a question.

Was it because the treatment failed, so my parents had to bring me back?

Did I cost them too much money to keep overseas? Or did I just embarrass them more at home?

Because I got even dumber, did they like me even less?

The thought stung, but I couldn’t push it away. I wrapped myself tighter in the hotel blanket, wishing I could disappear for good.