Thrown in the Oven, Burned by Regret

...

Cecily shook Carrie's arm, whining, "Mom, I want that strawberry cake."

Carrie froze, her tone stiff and laced with some kind of inner struggle. "This cake is..."

She choked off, feeling a lump in her throat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, she forced a tired smile. "Sure, sweetie. I'll open the box for you."

Cecily let out a triumphant cheer. Floating in the air, I felt a sharp, sour pain stab through my heart, which had long stopped beating.

The agony was even worse than the flames burning me in the oven. Carrie used to say it was my greed that brought in that homewrecker, but now she had bought a cake for Cecily.

The girl munched on the cake happily, then noticed Carrie's gaze fixed on the kitchen door. She blinked innocently, saying, "Should we get Ava to come and eat? She must be starving."

Those words popped Carrie's forced calm like a needle. She snapped her gaze away, her voice turning sharp. "Don't worry about her. If she's hungry, she'll come out on her own. She isn't a baby anymore."

In a fit of frustration, she turned to the kitchen and shouted, "Stop playing dead in there! Just like your scumbag dad, always putting on an act! If you're so tough, stay in there forever! Don't expect me to beg you to come out! You and your dad should drop dead!"

She didn't know I was already dead.

Carrie had a mental breakdown, shaking hard after her outburst. She lost her balance and fell backward, hitting the floor and passing out.

I rushed over in terror, trying to catch her, but my hands went right through her body. I could only watch helplessly as she lay there unconscious.

I was such a bad kid. I made her suffer when I was alive, and even in death, I was making her sad.

Carrie's collapse startled Cecily. She froze for a moment, then frantically grabbed the phone and dialed 911. The paramedics arrived quickly and loaded the unconscious Carrie onto a stretcher.

The house went quiet, and my gaze drifted back to the table. Half of that sliced cake was still sitting there on the plate. The bright, sweet strawberries now looked like congealed drops of blood.

I couldn't help but retch. I'd never eat a cake again. "Mom, I'm sorry."

...

My grandma, Marta Compton, heard about Carrie fainting and rushed over to take care of her.

Back home, Carrie passed by the kitchen door countless times but never pushed it open. She wouldn't let anyone else near it either.

Feeling sorry about her paranoid state, Marta advised, "Let the kid out. You can't blame Ava for Stefan's infidelity."

She gently rubbed Carrie's back and said softly, "Ava is still a child. You can't keep her locked up like that."

Carrie stood there rigid as a rock, staring at the kitchen door, her lips pressed tight. I knew she was still mad at me, but I was already dead.

She hated me so much that she wouldn't open the oven door and admit she was wrong.

When Carrie didn't budge, Marta sighed deeply. She reached out and grabbed the kitchen doorknob, speaking softly. "Ava, my sweet girl. Don't be afraid. Come out."

But all that answered her was dead silence.

She frowned and turned the knob. The door cracked open, and a horrible smell burst out from the gap. That was the stench of me being baked at high heat for so long and then rotting in that sealed space.

Marta's expression shifted.