We Drew Straws For My Death Chapter 2

She managed to coax a small, weary smile onto our mother's face.

"You're the only one who understands," my mother murmured, lowering her voice as she pulled a warm, foil-wrapped burrito from her purse—the cheap, greasy kind from the truck down the street that Grace loved.

"Eat this before your sister sees. Go on, eat it outside."

She gently nudged Grace toward the door.

A dull ache bloomed in my chest.

Normally, my mother never showed favoritism. Poverty had stripped our home of any luxury, and on the rare occasions my parents could afford a treat, they bought two of the exact same thing to ensure everything was perfectly equal. They had never let me see even a shadow of bias.

I reached out, trying to touch my mother’s cheek. You don't have to hide it anymore, Mom, I thought. You can love her openly now.

Grace smiled, though her eyes remained tired, and she stepped out onto the porch. My spirit drifted out after her.

She tore into the burrito, eating with a desperate, ravenous hunger, as if she hadn't eaten in days.

I reached out, trying to pat her back. "Slow down, Gracie. Slow down, no one’s going to take it from you."

But as she chewed, fat tears began to spill over her eyelashes, dripping onto the foil. She kept eating, swallowing her tears along with the food, her throat working hard.

Panic seized me. "Gracie? What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

She heard nothing.

She finished the food, wiped her eyes quickly, and took a deep, stabilizing breath. Forcing her face into a neutral mask, she opened the door and walked back inside.

My parents had set the table with a simple dinner of broth and bread.

"Dinner's ready, Your Highness!" my mother called toward my room, her tone laced with bitterness.

Three minutes passed. No movement.

My father rubbed his lower back, wincing at the chronic ache, and walked over to knock on my door. "Norah? Come eat, sweetheart."

Still, silence.

Grace tried next, her voice playful. "Hey, sleeping beauty, dinner's on the table!"

Nothing.

My mother’s patience snapped. She yanked off her apron, marching toward my room, her voice rising to a crescendo of anger:

"Are you giving us the silent treatment because we're treating your sister first? You drew the short straw, Norah! It was luck, pure luck!"

"Your sister has sacrificed everything for you! How can you be selfish enough to punish this entire family over a drawing?"

She reached for the doorknob, her posture tense, ready for a confrontation. My father stood behind her, assuming I was throwing a tantrum, and called through the wood:

"Norah, we don't have the money. If we did, we would have put both of you in the hospital tomorrow. You know that."

Grace quickly stepped between them, trying to calm them down.

Even though I knew they couldn't see or hear me, I cried out, defending myself to the empty air: "I’m not angry! I swear I’m not!"

Grace opened the door, slipping inside to mediate.

On the bed, my body lay beneath the heavy quilt, curled on my side, my face turned toward the drywall.

Grace sat on the edge of the mattress, glancing over at the still form. My spirit tensed, terrified she would realize the truth and be traumatized—yet equally terrified that if they didn't find me soon, the summer heat would do unspeakable things to my remains.

"Come on, Norah. Don't be mad at us," Grace coaxed, keeping her voice light.

She only looked at the blanket for a brief second before looking away. She didn't notice the absolute stillness of my chest.

Instead, she smiled, her voice taking on a forced, bright quality. "I have great news. I bought a scratch-off ticket today and won fifty thousand dollars!"

"Norah, we can go to the hospital together now. We can both get the treatment."

She was smiling, but her eyes were hollow, filled with a quiet, devastating grief.

My heart hammered in my chest. She hadn't won any lottery.

At that moment, the screen of her phone lit up in her hand. A text message banner popped up:

We're getting the marriage license tomorrow. The check will clear the second we sign.

The text was from Brody Harrington.

I screamed, throwing myself in front of Grace, trying to block her view of the screen. "What are you doing? Are you insane? You can't marry Brody!"

Brody Harrington was dying of pancreatic cancer. The doctors had given him six months.

Before his diagnosis, he had been a notorious playboy, his reputation dragged through every gutter in the city. He was the Harringtons' only son, and his wealthy family was desperate. They had put up flyers all over town, offering fifty thousand dollars to any young woman willing to marry him and try to conceive an heir before he passed. The flyers had stayed up for three months; no respectable girl would sell her life to a dying, cruel man for any amount of money.