When Dad Conducted My Autopsy, My Dead Sister Returned

My sister went missing for six years, and no one saw her alive or found her body. In the hearts of my parents, she had long been considered dead.

They erected a tombstone for her and designated the day she disappeared as her death anniversary.

I was only allowed to return home on that day, so I could kneel before her grave to apologize.

Last year, I suddenly fainted on my way to the train station. A passerby took me to the hospital, causing me to miss my train home.

By the time I rushed back, it was already three days later.

My furious father grabbed my hair and dragged me to my sister's grave. He held my head down and forcefully smashed it against the tombstone.

I felt dizzy from the impact, but he was still unsatisfied and viciously slapped my face.

Again and again, he struck me until my lips split and one of my front teeth was knocked out.

But now, he seemed to have forgotten.

Perhaps he had never cared.

To him, no matter what injuries I suffered—even if it cost me my life—I deserved it.

Tears fell from my eyes, and I thought, ‘Father, I really am dead now. I wonder if this counts as atonement in your heart.’

My father remained focused on examining the body, but suddenly, his phone rang.

He irritably took off his gloves and pressed the answer button.

My mother’s angry voice came through the receiver.

"That wretched Lena still hasn't come back! I think she just doesn't want to visit Jessica!"

I forced a bitter laugh. Was it me who didn't want to come back?

I had already died, killed by a cruel man's cold blade.

My father scoffed, "It would be best if she never came back, dying out there is better. Just looking at her disgusts me!"

As I listened to their exchange of insults, my heart felt as if it had been crushed by a heavy stone.

Clearly, I had sent a message asking for help that day, but they didn’t care.

Perhaps my death was a kind of relief for them.

In fact, even if I hadn’t been brutally killed, I wouldn’t have lived long anyway.

A year ago, after I fainted, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor.

I had told my parents, but they thought I was just trying to elicit their sympathy.

"Lena, if you want to die, just hurry up and make it happen. Don't expect us to feel sorry for you."

I just couldn't bear to die. I was afraid that when they grew old, no one would take care of them.

But now, seeing the disdain in their eyes as they talked about me, I felt a bit relieved to have died in this way.

They had always hoped for my miserable end, and once they discovered how tragic my death was, they would surely be satisfied.

After hanging up, my father’s gaze refocused on my body.

His eyes slowly began to redden.

It was indeed a sight too tragic to bear, and his voice trembled.

"There are stab wounds on the deceased—eight in total—but they all missed the vital organs."

"Preliminary assessment suggests the cause of death was excessive bleeding."

"The killer is truly perverse. He made the girl bleed out slowly. How painful it must have been."

I felt even more bitterness inside; it was indeed very painful.

I trembled all over from the pain, but there was nothing I could do except cry helplessly.

Yet my crying annoyed the killer. He grinned and gouged out my eyes.

My father’s hand holding the scalpel trembled. He took a deep breath and reminded his assistant to prepare for a craniotomy.

I hoped that when he saw the tumor in my brain, he might remember me, who was the one diagnosed with a brain tumor.

As I was thinking, the door of the forensic room was pushed open.

A young detective stood outside, looking like he was in a panic as he stared at my father.

My father frowned and looked at him in displeasure.

"What are you doing rushing in here? Young people nowadays just can't keep their cool."

"Just say what you need to say. Can’t you see I'm busy?"

The young detective gritted his teeth and said slowly, "Capt. Lister, Luke, the DNA report for the deceased has come out... she... she is Luke’s daughter!"