When They Confiscated My EpiPen: Breaking Down the Door to My Corpse

On the night before my sister's bone marrow transplant, my parents confiscated my EpiPen and locked me in the attic.

Their "genetic consultant" warned them that the medication would contaminate the stem cells meant for my sister.

I had eaten the meal they provided—one secretly laced with lethal traces of nuts.

The resulting anaphylactic swelling was suffocating me completely.

I frantically bashed my head against the door. "My pen... Mom, I can't breathe..."

"Stop putting on a show!" Mom snapped through the wood. "That meal was entirely nut-free! Are you faking an allergic reaction just because you can't stand the thought of your sister finally getting well?"

Her footsteps retreated.

Agonizing pain and oxygen deprivation overtook me as I clawed at the floor until every one of my nails snapped off.

Until my breathing stopped completely.

......

I opened my mouth, gaping like a fish tossed onto the sweltering pavement, desperate for air. But it felt as though a rapidly expanding ball of cotton had been shoved down my throat, refusing to let even the thinnest wisp of oxygen slip past.

It was all because of Evans, the man who paraded as a premium private medical consultant.

He had told my parents, "The compounds in her emergency allergy medication will severely degrade the purity and viability of the hematopoietic stem cells."

"To ensure the donation goes flawlessly, Maeve must be taken off all anti-allergy medications immediately, effective until tomorrow's surgery concludes."

Without a second thought, my parents confiscated my phone and my EpiPen.

"But Mom, I'm severely allergic to nuts..." I had tried to beg.

My father, Arthur, simply snatched the EpiPen and shoved it into his pocket. "Maeve, just how selfish can you be? Your sister is right on the verge of a new life. Yet at a critical moment like this, all you care about are your own insignificant little ailments. Can't you, for once in your life, genuinely think about your dying sister?"

The door slammed shut. The click of the lock sounded deafening in the dead silence of the attic.

I should have known better, really.

In this house, no one had ever cared about what I liked, what I feared, or whether I lived or died.

Seventeen years ago, if three-year-old Freya hadn't been diagnosed with leukemia and desperately needed a perfect match, I never would have been brought into this world.

My parents had me custom-made.

From the moment I first opened my eyes, every blood draw, every bone marrow biopsy, every trip into an operating room—it was all just to keep my sister alive.

In their eyes, I wasn't their daughter. I was merely a living, breathing medical container, specifically manufactured to harvest bone marrow and stem cells for Freya.

And now, as long as the container kept its stem cells pure, why would anyone care if the container itself lived or died?

Half an hour ago, my mother, Eleanor, had brought up a tray of food.

Mixed into that meal were lethal flakes of crushed almonds.

For someone with my severe nut allergy, it was as deadly as swallowing poison.

My vision began to blur.

Liquid fire erupted in my veins.

I could feel my lips and tongue swelling grotesquely, pushing past my teeth and suffocating me from the inside out.

I clutched at my own neck, my fingernails digging viciously into my skin—a primal, delirious urge to claw my own windpipe open just to let a single drop of air in.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped, panicked beast, sending deafening shockwaves through my pounding skull.

I dragged myself inch by inch toward the locked door. With every movement, a tearing agony ripped through my lungs.

Using the absolute last ounce of my strength, I battered my head and shoulder against the solid wood.

"Help... somebody help me..."

From downstairs came the faint strains of music.

Tonight, my parents had invited all our relatives, friends, and even the local press, to celebrate Freya finally stepping out from the shadow of leukemia.

No one would notice the commotion in the attic.

And even if they did, they wouldn't care.

My forehead slammed against the door panel one last time. Blood trickled down my brow and into my eye, bringing a warm, stinging sensation.

Just then, I noticed a folded piece of paper slipped through the crack under the door.

It was from Freya:

"Maeve, just bear with it for one more night, okay? Once I'm fully cured, I'll take you away from this house. We'll go to California, or anywhere else you want to go. I love you."

Looking at those words, the corners of my mouth twitched. I wanted to smile, but a tear beat me to it, splashing onto the paper.

Freya, my dear sister.

The only person in this house who treated me like a human being.

From the moment I was born, my sole purpose had been to save her.

A bone marrow biopsy at age five, peripheral stem cell collection at eight, lymphocyte infusions at thirteen... my body had long been a battlefield, riddled with scars.

I didn't resent her. I knew she had no choice in the matter, either.

But sweet sister, I don't think I'm going to make it to California.

A muffled, tragic gasp rattled in my chest as my vision plunged into total darkness. My body convulsed violently a few times. Then, everything faded into absolute, dead silence.

I didn't know how much time had passed.

Suddenly, I felt incredibly light. That throat-tearing sensation of asphyxiation was gone.

I slowly opened my eyes, only to find myself hovering just beneath the ceiling.

And right beneath me, slumped against the heavy wooden door—now covered in bloody scratch marks—lay a twisted, lifeless body.

It was mine.

The face was so grotesquely swollen it was practically unrecognizable. The skin had taken on a horrific, livid purple hue, and the fingernails, completely bent back from scraping so desperately against the floorboards, were dripping with blood.

I was dead.