Chapter 1: Blood and Betrayal

My mother was so desperate for a dowry that she injected my sister with blood from a man known to have HIV.

Even now, I can't find words cold enough for what she did. Out in our battered, two-story farmhouse on the edge of nowhere—cornfields swallowing the horizon and the nearest Walmart a forty-minute drive—"desperate" barely covers it. I remember the wild, hunted look in Mom’s eyes, clinging to the hope that a dowry could patch every crack in our broken lives.

My sister’s blood type didn’t match, so her body revolted. She screamed for three days straight, her agony echoing through our drafty house. Before she died, she scratched at the drywall so hard she left bloody prints everywhere. Even then, Mom refused to take her to the hospital. My sister died right here, in rural Ohio, with no one but us to witness it.

Those three days, I pressed my pillow over my ears, but her screams still clawed at me. I wanted to run to her, to do something—anything—but fear pinned me to the mattress. The blood she left behind on the faded wallpaper was a story no one wanted to tell. I can still see those streaks trailing down to the cracked linoleum, a grotesque mural no amount of bleach could wash away.

When Mom realized my sister was gone, she snapped. She straddled the body, slapped her, spat on her, and screamed, "You worthless brat! Even dead, you owe me—I'll get every damn penny!"

Her voice wasn’t human anymore. It was all rage and animal need, echoing off the sagging ceiling and into every shadow. She spat again, like she could purge her own failures with every curse. In that moment, there was nothing left of her but greed.

Staring at my sister’s body, a chill ran up my spine.

The room was cold as a walk-in freezer, the metallic scent of blood hanging over everything. My hands shook as I looked at the small, broken shape that used to be my sister. The world felt suddenly hollow and ancient.

Her hands were torn open from clawing at the walls. For days, she’d scratched until her fingers bled, crying out for Mom over and over.

Even now, if I close my eyes, I see those desperate prints—a silent cry for help pressed forever into the drywall. The skin on her fingers was shredded, raw and red, and all for nothing. By the end, her voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the darkness.

The wealthiest man’s son in our town—spoiled rotten, always partying—caught HIV. Nobody would marry him.

People gossiped about him at the diner but never said his name. They called him "the prince of junk," a shadow drifting from house to house, leaving disaster behind. Not even the most desperate girls would risk that kind of trouble.

His parents wanted to keep their family name going, so they offered a huge dowry. But nobody in town would sacrifice their daughter—except my mother.

It was all anyone talked about—a sum big enough to buy a new truck, fix the roof, maybe even pay for college. But nobody wanted to tie their daughter to him—except Mom, who found hope in every darkness.

She never asked my sister. She just drew blood from the groom, waited until my sister was asleep, tied her up, and—afraid she wouldn’t catch HIV—injected the whole tube into her. The mismatched blood made her body revolt.

There was no warning, no explanation—just a silent, cruel night. The only light in the kitchen came from the fridge, casting Mom’s shadow long and warped across the linoleum. I heard the click of the syringe, the slow, steady draw of her breath, the thump of my own heart in my throat. She moved like she was prepping a Thanksgiving turkey, not destroying her own child.

Mom just wanted my sister weak enough to accept the marriage.

It was a plan hatched in madness—make her desperate, too sick to say no. That’s how Mom worked: corner you, force you down the only path she’d left open.

If my sister had gotten to the ER, she might have survived. But Mom, terrified of jail, refused to let her go—no matter what.

All that talk about family and sacrifice vanished, replaced by pure, animal fear of disgrace. In our town, everyone whispered, and no secret stayed buried for long.

Soon after, Mom perked up again. She pulled me aside at the kitchen table, voice low like she was letting me in on a Wall Street tip. Her eyes gleamed with that gambler’s hope.

First, she said, hold a big funeral and collect condolence money from everyone.

She made it sound like a business deal, not a burial. “Everyone will want to pay their respects,” she said, “and every envelope counts.”

Second, she wanted to arrange a ghost wedding—what folks here call a "spirit marriage," marrying the dead—so she could collect a dowry from the groom’s family.

She’d heard about it from an old neighbor obsessed with cable specials—marrying off the dead so they’d have company in the afterlife. She figured the groom’s folks would pay up just to save face. Even the preacher muttered, "That’s some old country voodoo—marrying off the dead? You’ll bring the devil to your doorstep!"

Third, she planned to throw a ghost wedding reception, collecting cash gifts all over again.

It was a grim encore—one last squeeze of sympathy money. She even joked about it, like she was running a buy-one-get-one-free sale on grief.

She was proud, boasting that she was a business genius.

She tapped her temple, grinning. “That’s how you turn tragedy into a windfall.” Swagger in her voice, like she’d cracked the code on loss.

She hired someone to handle the arrangements and shoved a worn sponge into my hand, ordering me to scrub every bloodstain from the walls so the relatives wouldn’t be scared off.

“No spots,” she barked. “We need everything looking right for the guests.” There was no time for grief, just logistics and bleach.

As I wiped away the blood, my heart ached with grief.

Each swipe felt like erasing my sister’s last scream. The house was silent except for the soft scrape of sponge against wall and my own muffled sob. The smell of bleach clung to the air, but nothing could wash away what happened.

Mom thought she was a business genius, but that’s what ruined our family.

I remembered all her get-rich-quick schemes—every shortcut that led us further down. Her pride was poison, eating away at us from the inside out.

Back then, we were doing fine. Dad worked at the local factory and saved up $15,000.

He fixed everything himself, called everyone “ma’am” or “sir,” kept his change in a glass jar. Fifteen grand was our hope—a shot at college, a better roof, maybe a way out.

But Mom fell for a scam, wired the whole $15,000 away, and the funds got frozen.

It started with a phone call, a too-good-to-be-true deal. Suddenly, the money was gone, our account gutted. Dad stared at the zero balance in shock, slumped in his old recliner.

Trying to get it back, she lied to friends and family, borrowed $30,000 more, and wired it to the scammer. We called the police in a panic.

It was chaos—Mom dialing, Dad begging, my sister sobbing. I remember my hands shaking as I dialed 911, trying to explain the mess.

When the cops showed up, she locked herself in, while we and the officers pounded on the door, begging her not to send the money.

Neighbors peered out, the cops hammered on the door. Mom screamed that we were traitors, refusing to let us in. Dad’s voice broke as he pleaded through the keyhole.

It was my sister who risked everything, smashed a window, and rushed inside. She was cut and bleeding, but she grabbed the phone before Mom could transfer the money and ran.

Glass rained down as she dove through the kitchen window, blood dripping from her arms. She tore the phone away, sprinting barefoot across the gravel, tears streaming.

That time, my sister thought she’d saved the family.

She hugged me in the yard, both of us shaking. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We still have each other.” For a moment, hope flickered. I believed her.

I still remember her, bloodied from the glass, holding me and crying, saying that even though the savings were gone, at least we weren’t in debt. She’d work hard to help Mom make up the $15,000 loss.

She was always the first to step up, the one with a plan—even if it meant sacrificing her own dreams. Her voice was tired but determined.

But reality proved it was just her wishful thinking.

Hope wasn’t enough. No matter how much she tried, Mom’s black hole of schemes devoured everything.

From that day on, Mom hated my sister.

Resentment stuck to her like a shadow, turning every word into a knife. Every meal was a battle, every silence a thunderstorm waiting to break.

She never believed she’d been scammed. She thought she was a business genius trapped in a small town, blaming my sister for ruining her only shot at getting the money back.

She spun stories about secret fortunes, always the victim, never the fool. In her mind, the world was against her—and my sister was the worst of all.

Especially after Dad, furious at losing all his savings, died from the stress.

He collapsed at dinner one night, clutching his chest—gone before the ambulance lights even reached the porch. The hospital bills were the final insult.

In a place like this, $15,000 is enough to break a man who worked for it his whole life.

The neighbors brought casseroles and awkward hugs, but nothing could fill the hole Dad left. In our town, every penny is earned by sweat, and every loss cuts deep.

So Mom hated my sister even more, blaming her for Dad’s death.

She threw it like a curse—words meant to wound, reminders whispered in the dark. My sister bore it in silence, shrinking a little more with every insult.

I wiped away the last bloody prints. That’s when Mom stormed in with a crowd and told me to get out and greet them.