A Vessel for Their Sins

Growing up, if Cecily so much as frowned, whatever I was holding would be ripped from my hands. If she coughed twice, I’d be sent to kneel out in the snow to reflect on how I had "failed to take proper care of my sister."

In adulthood, their favoritism remained unchanged—only it grew deadlier.

My father would slam his fist against the table, threatening to freeze my trust fund and kick me out of the Vance family.

My mother would stare at me with red, tearful eyes, accusing me of "stealing your sister's nutrients in the womb."

Even Declan, my husband on paper, would constantly lecture me about being "reasonable" and "compliant," trying to pressure me into signing a "Volunteer Experimental Trial Consent Form" for Cecily's sake.

An unapproved, illegal human trial.

In the past, I would have cried. I would have looked at them and asked, "When did any of you ever look at me and see a daughter?"

That was until the day I got my own medical report back.

[Terminal Congenital Heart Failure.]

Seven days left to live.

When my father threw that consent form on the table again, using my banishment as collateral; when my mother sobbed, begging me to "take the hit" for my sister; when Declan tried to coax me, promising "just cooperate, it’ll be over soon"—I finally picked up the pen.

I signed my name on an experimental trial waiver with a 90% mortality rate.

They all smiled with relief. They told me I was finally being mature.

What they didn't know was that my time was already up.

Smack.

The "Volunteer Experimental Trial Consent Form" hit the coffee table hard.

My father, Richard, used a tone that left no room for argument. "Sign it. Cecily only has a month left. This is her last hope."

Declan sat down beside me, naturally taking my freezing hand into his. "Violet, be good. It's just a preliminary test for the match. The doctor said it'll be quick. It won't hurt."

Sitting across from us was my mother, Eleanor. Her eyes were red as she kept a tight, protective hold tightly around a pitiable-looking Cecily.

"Your sister has had a weak constitution since she was a baby! You stole her nutrients while we were still carrying you!" my mother’s voice hitched, going up an octave. "Now she could relapse and die at any second. You’re her older sister—can you really just stand by and watch her die?"

I kept my head down, staring blankly at the way Declan’s fingers wrapped around mine.

I opened my mouth to say something, but it felt like my throat was packed with cotton.

I turned to the last page of the document. My finger stopped.

"Rejection Mortality Rate... 70%?"

My voice shook. The tears sprang to my eyes instantly, burning against my lashes.

I looked up, meeting each of their gazes, one by one, like a drowning woman looking for a lifeline. "Do you guys even know what this is? This isn't a preliminary match test. This is an unapproved, illegal human trial. Do you not see that the rejection mortality rate printed right here is seventy percent?"

My mother’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second before she snapped into a defensive rage. "Is that how you speak to your father? The doctor said that's only in extreme, worst-case scenarios! You’re perfectly healthy, why would you die?"

Healthy?

A bitter smile touched my lips. My nose stung so badly I could barely breathe.

I wanted to tell her about the nights I spent wide awake, clutching my chest as I gasped for air. I wanted to tell her about the blood-streaked phlegm I kept coughing into the sink. I wanted to tell them that my body was breaking down, that I wasn't healthy at all.

"When have you ever looked at me and seen a daughter?" my voice was gossamer-thin, so weak it sounded like I was just asking myself. The tears were already brimming, ready to spill.

"Enough of this tantrum!" Richard slammed his palm against the coffee table. "If you don't sign this, I want you out of the Vance house tomorrow. There's no place for you here, and you can forget about seeing a single cent of your trust fund!"

My heart violently spasmed. A tear slipped free.

Right on cue, Cecily coughed weakly. Tears rolled beautifully down her pale cheeks. "Mom, Dad, please don't force her... It’s my fault. I just won't get the treatment. I was born a burden anyway..."

"Don't talk nonsense, Cecily!" Declan instantly let go of me, rushing around the table. He dropped to one knee beside her, looking utterly heartbroken as he tried to comfort her.

I stared at Declan's back. I watched how frantically he grasped Cecily's hand, and it felt like a jagged piece of my own heart was being carved out of my chest.

My father pulled out a fountain pen and slid it across the table toward me.

I reached out and took it. My fingers were trembling so violently I could barely hold the metal barrel. I looked at the pen, then at the form, then up at the family sitting across from me.

"Just sign it," Declan threw over his shoulder. His voice was thick with exhaustion and irritation.

I bit down hard on my lip, the tears finally overspilling in a silent flood. My grip tightened involuntarily. I was shaking too hard to control my own strength.

Snap.

I broke the pen in half.

"I'm not signing it," I choked out, tossing the broken, bleeding plastic onto the table. "If you want to be murderers, find someone else."

I turned and bolted from the room.

I ran up the stairs to the second-floor hallway, the tears streaming down my face in an unstoppable deluge.

"Violet! Stop right there!" my father roared from below.

I kept running. But a hand shot out from behind, gripping my wrist hard enough to bruise.

I spun around. It was Declan.

His brows were knitted together, his eyes filled with nothing but profound disappointment. "Do you have to be so extreme all the time? Cecily is seriously ill. What is so wrong with being a good sister and just obeying your parents for once? Do you enjoy turning this house upside down?"

I looked at him, the tears dropping off my chin.

"Declan," my voice cracked, raw and raspy. "I'm asking you right now: if there is a seventy percent chance I'll die on that table... would you still make me do it?"

Declan froze. His eyes shifted away. "The doctor said that's a conservative estimate..."

"Answer me." I stared unblinkingly into his eyes.

He didn't look at me. He just stayed entirely, suffocatingly silent.

I waited. I waited for an eternity. I waited until my tears ran dry, until the very last ember in my chest burned out and turned to ash.

"That's enough," I stepped back. "Your silence is the answer. Declan, are you even with me because you love me? Or is it just because Cecily and I share the exact same face?"

All the color drained from his face in an instant. He stood there, completely paralyzed.

Looking at his pale face, a profound, unparalleled sense of desolation washed over me.

I didn't look at him again. I turned around, went into my room, and locked the door. I leaned my back against the heavy wood, slowly sliding down until I hit the floor. I buried my face in my knees and wept, a silent, agonizing kind of weeping that tears the soul apart.

...

The next day. A private clinic.

I sat in the sterile metal chair, clutching my medical report so tightly my knuckles were white. The attending physician sat across from me, his expression grave.

"Miss Violet... your congenital heart failure has reached the terminal stage. Have you been coughing up blood and experiencing shortness of breath lately?"

I gave a numb, wooden nod.

"You have seven days left, at most. If you stay in the ICU and rest, we might be able to stretch it to a month..."

"What if I undergo the experimental treatment at the Carlisle Medical Center—the one for Cecily?" I interrupted him.

The doctor's face blanched. He waved his hands frantically. "Absolutely not! That trial is grueling even for healthy individuals! If a body in your condition takes that kind of pharmaceutical dosage, it won't just accelerate the failure; it will be agonizing! The mortality rate for you would be... well over ninety percent!"

Ninety percent.

I stared at the doctor's terrified face, and suddenly, I laughed. I laughed until thick, heavy tears started rolling down my cheeks.

Yesterday, when they were forcing me to sign that consent form, they called it a "preliminary match test." They said it would be "quick and painless." Now I knew. It wasn't a test. They were willfully shoving me into a meat grinder just to buy her a little more time.

"Seven days... that's enough." I stood up and pulled my coat tighter around myself.

I didn't want to live anymore. Not for a single second. I had spent my whole life begging like a stray dog, trying so desperately to survive in that house, craving just a crumb of my parents' affection. I’d wanted so badly to believe that Declan's love for me was real, not just a ghost of his feelings for Cecily.

But they never saw me as human. They wouldn't even feel remorse. When I died, they would probably just stand at my grave, breathe a sigh of relief, and whisper, "Thank God it was her."

"Make me a copy of the full risk waiver for that trial, and a copy of my terminal diagnosis," I told the doctor, fighting the tearing pain in my chest as I turned toward the door. "If anyone asks, just tell them I insisted on having them."

...

That night. The estate's study.

Declan sat across from me. Another freshly printed copy of the consent form had been pushed toward my side of the desk.

"Violet, you've had a day to cool off. You should have thought this through by now," Declan said, a thread of sheer exhaustion in his voice. "Cecily got worse today. Just sign it. Tomorrow you go in, cooperate for a tiny test, and we can all go back to normal."

"A tiny test." I repeated the words softly, looking down, staring dead at my own hands.

"I know she's dying," my voice was hollow. "So you want me to die instead."

"No one is asking you to die! Why do you always have to—" His voice hitched up into a yell before he forced it back down into a frustrated hiss. "Why can't you just be reasonable for once in your life?"

Numbly, I reached into my purse and pulled out the medical risk waiver the doctor had given me. I placed it on the desk and slid it over to him.

He looked down. I watched the blood drain from his face, an inch at a time.

"Mortality rate... ninety percent," his voice trembled.

I looked up into his panicked eyes.

"I... I didn't know it was this high..." he muttered, stumbling over his words.

"You didn't know?" I asked. "Did you not want to know? Or did you already know, and just didn't care?"

He shot up from his chair, grabbing my wrist across the desk. "Then what do you want me to do?! Cecily is... she's so fragile! She has to live!"

I looked at his hand clamping down on my arm. I looked at his face, frantic and manic over another woman's life, and whatever was left of my heart finally, irrevocably shattered.

"So, I just have to die. Is that it?" A tear slipped loose, splashing onto the back of his hand.

He didn't answer. He just looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

Slowly, I pried his fingers off my wrist, one by one. I picked up the pen from the desk, dragged the consent form toward me, and signed my name.

"You..." Declan stood frozen in shock.

"I signed it." I looked up at him. "But I didn't do it for Cecily. I signed it to kill whatever expectations I still had left for any of you."

I shoved the signed document into his chest. Then, I reached into my purse one last time and pulled out the divorce papers.

"Take a look at this, too."

"I'm not signing that!" Declan took a step back, genuine panic finally surfacing in his eyes.

"Suit yourself."

Right in front of him, I ripped my copy of the divorce agreement down the middle. I tore it again, and again, letting the confetti-like pieces rain down onto the expensive Persian rug.

"You don't have to sign it. As of today, we're done."

I wasn't angry anymore. I wasn't looking for someone to blame. There was nothing left inside me but an endless, echoing deadness.

I turned and walked toward the door. Just as my hand wrapped around the brass knob, I stopped. I didn't look back.

"Oh, by the way, Declan," I said, closing my eyes against a wave of profound exhaustion. "Did you know Cecily's medical reports are forged down to the punctuation marks?"