The Baby They Swapped, The Girl They Broke

I picked up the prosthetic, clearly broken now, and said nothing. I dragged myself upright and hopped on one leg to the bedroom door.

The pain nearly buckled me.

Just as I caught the doorframe, Charles came rushing over.

"Vicky, are you okay?"

The force of him slammed me flat to the floor.

He came down hard on top of me.

My shoulder hit the ground again, and everything went black behind my eyes.

I clenched my teeth and made no sound.

The tears came first.

But Mom and Dad rushed straight over to lift Charles up, checking him over.

"Charlie, are you hurt? Did the fall hurt?"

Once they were sure he was fine, Dad scowled and snapped at me.

"Nobody hit you, nobody yelled at you. What are you crying about now?"

"Moping around all day, like the whole family owes you a fortune."

The whole family was cursing at me.

He and Mom had both seen Charles stomp my prosthetic.

They had both seen him knock me down.

And still they called it nobody hitting, nobody yelling.

Lying there on the floor, I heard something warm drip onto the tiles, and I suddenly laughed out loud.

Mom's eyes finally moved off Charles and onto me.

When she made out the blood on the floor, something like pity flickered across her face, and she hurried to help me up.

Then Charles shot his arm out, holding it up in front of me.

"Vicky, if you hate me and don't want me helping you, just say so. Why go and pinch me on the sly?"

There was a clear pinch mark on his arm, the skin broken just a little, a thin line of blood seeping out.

I hadn't touched him.

But Mom stared at that mark and her eyes went red in an instant.

She turned and slapped me across the face.

"Victoria, what is the matter with you!"

"Every single year you can't let one birthday go by in peace!"

My face jerked to the side, my ears ringing.

My cheek burned, my mouth full of the taste of blood.

Charles stood behind Mom and smiled at me.

That smile was all smugness and dare.

He slid an arm around Mom's shoulders and soothed her.

"Mom, don't be upset. Vicky just did badly on her exams, she's in a bad mood. My birthday wish was for our family to be peaceful from now on."

Mom wiped her tears and nodded.

"Charlie, you're the one who really cares. I don't know how other people's daughters turn out so warm and sweet!"

Dad kicked the prosthetic off to the side and said impatiently,

"Enough! Everyone leave her alone. Let's eat!"

In the end Mom couldn't quite bring herself to leave it. She ordered gauze, iodine, and painkillers, and dropped them on my bed.

"A little cut like this you can deal with at home. Save the money for fixing the prosthetic."

She took the prosthetic and pulled the door shut for me.

I stayed on the floor, not moving.

My head was full of this day, three years ago.

That day Mom had sent me to take Charles out to buy the cake he wanted, and when the runaway truck came barreling at us, there was only one thought in my head: my brother can't get hurt.

I was fifteen that year.

I saved Charles. Even the cake he loved came out only slightly dented.

But I lost a leg.

At first, because I'd saved his life, my parents and Charles doted on me, careful with me.

That was the happiest month I'd ever had. So happy I thought losing a leg was worth it.

But once I was out of the hospital and back home, everything went back to just the way it was before.

No. There was one difference.

Charles and I used to each have a bedroom on the upper floor.

But after I came home, with my bad leg, I could only live in the storage room on the ground floor.

And my old room became Charles's storage closet.

After dinner, my parents drove off together to take Charles to a karaoke bar to party with his friends.

Before they left, Mom called out to me the way she always did.

"Vicky, if it's no trouble, clear the table, wash up the dishes, and give the floor a mop."

She never openly forced me to do anything. It was always, is it any trouble for you? Can you manage?

For one look of approval, I'd been washing dishes and mopping floors since I was five.

I never stopped, not even after I lost the leg.

And what did it ever get me?

Nothing at all.

So they wouldn't notice I'd gone, I did every chore she'd asked. Then I packed my clothes with a few quick motions, wiped the dust off the crutches that had sat forgotten for so long, took the only three hundred-odd dollars in cash I had, and walked out the door.

When my parents got home and saw the house clean and tidy, they exchanged a smile.

The next second, Dad's phone buzzed. It was the hospital.

"Hello, is this Charles Finch's family? He's been stabbed. He's lost too much blood. He needs emergency surgery!"