They Raised Me To Be Their Spare Parts

When I was eight years old, a raging fever kept me bedridden in the basement storage room for two whole days, completely ignored. Just upstairs, separated only by the ceiling, my mother had rented out an entire hotel to throw a lavish birthday gala for her adopted daughter.

All these years, they pinned me down on operating tables—drawing my bone marrow, slicing off half my liver, gouging out my left cornea. I endured it all, naively believing that if I was obedient enough, understanding enough, and bled enough, I could eventually earn just a passing glance of charity in this place they called "home."

Until today. From just outside the door came the quiet scratching of a pen as she signed the consent form to harvest my heart—while I was still alive. I finally understood: the cold-blooded creatures of the Whitmore family didn't have hearts of their own. That was exactly why they had to carve out mine.

The EKG monitor beeped in a steady, monotonous rhythm. I was freezing.

"We just need to clip a tiny piece of the valve, it'll be over before you know it. Chloe, please, do it for Mom—save your sister just this one last time."

Half an hour ago, that was what Diana had told me as she wheeled me into this VIP pre-op suite, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. I believed her. Just like I had every single time over the past decade.

The door wasn't shut tight. Through the narrow crack, muted voices drifted in from the hallway.

"Mrs. Whitmore, this is completely against protocol. The risks are astronomical." Dr. Evans’s deliberately lowered voice leaked through the gap.

"Dr. Evans, I donate thirty million dollars to this private hospital every year, and it’s certainly not to hear you lecture me about protocol." That was Diana, my mother.

"But to directly extract a healthy, beating heart... If the Medical Board finds out..."

"No one is going to find out," Diana cut him off. "Stick to the plan. When the time comes, it will be claimed that she suffered an extremely rare, severe allergic reaction to the anesthesia. Resuscitation will fail, resulting in brain death. And as her legal guardian, I will sign the organ donation consent forms on the spot. Meanwhile, my eldest daughter, Bianca, will conveniently receive the matched heart in the OR next door."

The breath hitched violently in my throat. This wasn't a valve repair. This wasn't a minor surgery. They were going to harvest my entire heart.

Panic surged. I tried desperately to sit up, to rip the IV from the back of my hand, but the muscle relaxants had gradually severed the connection between my brain and my limbs.

"Mom..." The muffled roll of a wheelchair came from the corridor. It was Bianca. "Mom, maybe we should just forget it. If Chloe gets into some medical accident because of me... how am I supposed to live with myself?"

I clenched my teeth. If? So she perfectly knew this was no accident at all.

"Don't cry, sweetie, your heart rate will get erratic again." Diana’s tone switched instantly to honeyed sweetness. "This isn't an accident; it's her purpose. Chloe has always been the most sensible child in our family. She knows very well that if anything happens to you, this family would be completely destroyed."

The faint scuff of leather shoes sounded against the floor tiles. My father, Richard, who hadn't spoken a word until now, let out a heavy sigh. "Diana, make sure Evans has everything sorted out. Make it quick. Don't let her suffer."

He said it with such chilling composure.

My chest heaved violently, and the green lines on the EKG monitor spiked in a brief, erratic wave. The machine gave two short, warning beeps.

"Is she awake?" Bianca's voice tightened with anxiety.

"I'll go check."

The door clicked and swung open. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately forcing my breathing to slow into a steady rhythm. The familiar scent of Chanel No. 5, intertwined with the sharp sting of hospital bleach, washed over me. Diana stepped up to my bedside. I could even feel the soft brush of her expensive velvet shawl against my cheek.

"Her heart rate is a bit high," Diana observed, staring coldly at the monitor.

"Pre-op anxiety. It's a perfectly normal physiological response." Dr. Evans's footsteps followed her into the room. "The deep anesthesia will take effect shortly. In one minute, she won't have any consciousness left. You can head next door to accompany your older daughter for her prep."

A cool hand rested against my forehead. Diana brushed a stray lock of hair away from my cheek. "Go to sleep, Chloe," she whispered, her voice dripping with condescension as she loomed over me. "Once you fall asleep, you'll finally be able to make the greatest contribution to your sister, and to this family."

She turned her head, speaking toward the doorway as if comforting Bianca. "See? She's sound asleep. She can't hear a thing."

The footsteps receded. The door latch clicked sharply, sealing firmly.

Only lead surgeon Evans and an unnamed nurse remained in the freezing room.

"Syringe pump one, prepare to push the Propofol bolus," Evans ordered, his voice returning to a cold, mechanical monotone. "The moment it's in, prep for endotracheal intubation and notify OR Two that we are ready to receive the donor."

"Right away, Doctor." The nurse's footsteps moved toward the foot of the bed, and the metal instruments on the medical cart clinked sharply.

I heard the sharp hiss of air being purged from the syringe. The moment that needle pushed into my vein would be the exact moment their so-called "severe allergic reaction" occurred.

I absolutely would not let them get away with this.