My Final Gift Was My Life Chapter 2

I lay there, a discarded doll on the tiles. My mother was shaking, her heels clicking as she stepped closer and pressed the toe of her shoe down on my wrist.

"Is this fun for you, Zoey? Making me look like a fool in front of my colleagues? Do you think being my daughter means you get to hold everyone hostage with your tantrums?"

She leaned down, her voice a cold, jagged blade. "The biggest mistake I ever made was fighting so hard to bring you into this world."

A few students behind us gasped. Stacy covered her mouth, but her eyes were dancing with a cruel sort of glee.

My heart—the ghost of it—ached. I remembered the stories. My mother had gone through three rounds of IVF to have me. I’d seen the faint, faded marks on her skin from the hundreds of injections. I knew she had bled for me, cried for me, suffered for me.

And I remembered being a child. I was born premature, the anemia a lingering shadow from my first breath. My mother used to stay up all night when I was sick, her notebooks filled with meal plans and massage techniques to keep me healthy. She used to be my protector.

But everything changed when she became Dean.

On my first day of college, she sat me down for a "professional" talk. We have to maintain boundaries, she had said. No special treatment. No favoritism.

To "maintain boundaries," she gave my merit scholarship to the runner-up. "If you take it, people will say I rigged it for you," she explained. "You have to understand, Zoey."

To "maintain boundaries," she gave my spot in the prestigious state internship to a student from a "troubled background." "I have eyes on me, Zoey. I have to be seen as fair."

I understood. I swallowed the unfairness every single time. I did it for her.

But this time, to prove her "fairness," she had forced me into this room. "Because you're my daughter, you should be the first one in line. If you don't do it, how can I ask anyone else?"

And now, she was telling me she regretted my existence.

I looked down at my body. My arms were a map of bruises and needle holes. I wasn't faking. I was gone.

Stacy grabbed my arm, pretending to pull me up, but her grip was loose and mocking. "Come on, Zoey. Just two hundred more mils and we’re done."

She "slipped." She stumbled back, letting out a small shriek as she fell to the floor. The blood bag she was holding flew out of her hand, hitting the floor and bursting.

Deep, crimson blood splattered everywhere.

My body was jerked upward for a second before slamming back down into the puddle of my own blood. My white shirt soaked it up instantly.

Stacy bit her lip, her eyes suddenly brimming with fake tears. "Zoey! Why would you do that? I was just trying to help you up, and you pushed me!"

She looked at my mother, her voice trembling. "She just threw the blood. All that work... wasted. Dean Mercer, I’m so sorry. I know how much you care about this drive."

Stacy started to sob, the picture of a victimized worker. "I’m so jealous of her, you know? She has a mother like you, she gets to go to this great school, and I’m just a nurse working double shifts. And she treats me like garbage."

I stood there, invisible, watching the absurdity. A dead girl can't push anyone, Stacy.

But my mother believed her. She walked over and pulled Stacy into a hug, rubbing her back. "It’s okay. Don't cry. I won't let her bully you anymore."

I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with death.

My mother looked at my body on the floor with utter loathing. "Since she’s so determined to 'play dead' to get out of this, I’m not lifting a finger to help her."

She looked at Stacy. "Take the blood she wasted out of her other arm. Draw it all. I want to see exactly how long she can keep up this little performance."

The students in line started chiming in.

"She’s totally faking. I can't believe Dean Mercer has to deal with this."

"So entitled. She thinks she’s royalty just because of her mom."

"She’s literally wasting everyone’s time. Just pull the blood and move on."

Then, the University President walked into the room, alerted by the commotion. He saw me on the floor, surrounded by red, and his face went pale.

"Dean Mercer, what happened? Do we need an ambulance?"

My mother turned, a weary, practiced sigh escaping her lips. "Mr. President, please excuse my daughter. She’s having a bit of a tantrum because she didn't want to donate. The blood on the floor? She threw it to get back at me."

She looked back at me with a hard, unforgiving glare. "Don't worry about her. The more attention we give her, the worse she gets. She needs to learn that she can't always get her way."