My Faked Death, His Endless Torment

Ela Campbell POV:

Isabel glided into the room, her eyes still red-rimmed from her "hysterics," but a subtle smirk played on her lips. She moved with an almost ethereal grace, her presence immediately commanding the attention of my parents. She saw me, of course, sprawled on the bed, my body aching, and a flicker of pure malice crossed her features before she smoothed it away, replacing it with a look of manufactured sorrow.

"Ela," she whispered, her voice laced with false concern. "I'm so sorry, truly. I didn't mean to upset you. Can we… can we just forget all this? Let's be sisters again. I know what will make you feel better." She took a step closer, holding up a small, intricately woven basket. "I brought you some more of that special chamomile tea you like. And I even started knitting us matching scarves, just like we used to do."

My parents' faces softened instantly. "That's so thoughtful, darling," Clarissa cooed. "Ela, isn't that sweet? You should try to be more like your sister."

I lay perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the basket, specifically on the knitting needles protruding from it. A cold dread seeped into my bones. Knitted scarves. Chamomile tea. The memories flooded back, sharp and painful.

Years ago, when Isabel first came to live with us, she' d insisted we knit matching scarves. She claimed it was a "sister bonding" activity. I, eager for her affection, had thrown myself into it, despite my clumsy fingers and the persistent cough that had just begun to plague me. The wool, a deep, vibrant crimson, irritated my skin, leaving tiny red welts on my wrists. I ignored it, focused on making the perfect scarf for my new sister.

The cough worsened, becoming a deep, hacking sound that rattled my chest. My hands, already weak, grew clumsier. One afternoon, as I struggled with a particularly intricate stitch, I felt a sharp prick. One of the knitting needles, thin and sharp, had pierced my palm. A tiny bead of blood welled up. I cried out, more from frustration than pain.

Isabel, who had been watching me with an unnervingly intense gaze, immediately dropped her own scarf and rushed over. "Oh, Ela! Are you alright? You're so pale!" She had fussed over my hand, then insisted I drink a special "herbal blend" she' d made, claiming it would "calm my nerves" and "boost my immunity." A few hours later, my throat constricted, my skin broke out in itchy hives, and I collapsed, gasping for air.

The doctors declared it a severe allergic reaction to the wool – a rare, life-threatening sensitivity. My parents were horrified, blaming themselves for not noticing my "frail constitution." Isabel, meanwhile, cried hysterically, blaming herself for suggesting the knitting, while secretly whispering to King that I was always "so delicate, so prone to melodrama."

King, then still just my boyfriend, had looked at me with a bewildered pity that slowly curdled into resentment when Isabel, through her tears, confessed to him, "I just wanted to make her happy. I never meant to hurt her. I guess I just don't understand how someone can be so… sensitive." He had gone from visiting me daily in the hospital to distant, infrequent calls. My forced confinement, labeled a "sensitive health issue," had kept me away from him, leaving a void Isabel was only too happy to fill. When I finally emerged, pale and frail, from my isolation, King' s eyes held a new, colder light. A look of ingrained suspicion.

"Still allergic to knitting wool, Isabel?" I asked, my voice flat, pulling myself up to a sitting position. The room suddenly felt charged, the air heavy with unspoken accusations.

Just then, the door opened again. King stood there, his eyes scanning the room, his gaze resting on me, then on Isabel. He must have heard my question. He had always been a master of timing, appearing just when a situation reached its boiling point. I wondered if he had been listening outside the door. He used to do that sometimes, in the early days of our engagement, when he still pretended to care, checking on my "meltdowns." Now, I knew his presence was not for comfort, but for control. He was here to ensure I didn't ruin Isabel's carefully constructed narrative.

Isabel' s sweet smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered. "Oh, King! You're back! Ela and I were just… catching up." She turned to me, her voice falsely bright. "Ela, darling, you know I overcame that silly allergy years ago. Remember how I made myself wear wool every day until my body adjusted? I'm much stronger now." She reached out, her hand hovering over my arm, then gently brushed my sleeve.

A sharp, stinging sensation immediately spread across my skin where she touched me. I flinched, pulling my arm back.

Isabel gasped, her eyes widening in feigned alarm. She stumbled backward, clutching her stomach, then collapsed to the floor with a soft cry. "Oh! My head… the dizziness… I feel so faint…"

A perfect performance. I saw her hand flash, a quick, almost imperceptible movement, as she scratched her arm before collapsing. The air in the room grew thick with tension.

"Isabel!" Clarissa screamed, rushing to her side. "What happened? Are you alright?"

My father, Johnie, glared at me, his face contorted with rage. "What did you do, Ela? Are you trying to hurt her again?"

Suddenly, red blotches began to appear on Isabel's exposed arm, spreading rapidly, angry and inflamed.

"Look!" Clarissa shrieked, pointing at Isabel's arm. "She's breaking out in hives! Just like before! Ela, you deliberately provoked her, didn't you, you evil girl?"

I stared at the spreading rash, a horrifying mosaic of red and white, rising quickly on Isabel's pale skin. It was impossibly fast, impossibly severe. Much faster than any natural allergic reaction I had ever witnessed. My mind raced, connecting the dots. The "chamomile tea," the "knitting wool," the sudden onset of symptoms. It was all a lie. A carefully crafted, long-term deception.

"No," I whispered, barely audible. "I didn't…"

Just then, King was beside Isabel, his face grim. He knelt, his strong hands gently supporting her head. His eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a cold, murderous fury. "What did you do to her, Ela?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You hateful, jealous witch, always trying to destroy her."

Isabel whimpered, burying her face in King's chest. "It's okay, King. I told her I was fine. I just wanted us to be sisters again. I should have known she'd never change." She lifted her head, her eyes, swimming with tears, met mine. It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph, a silent challenge. I win.