My Heart Is Rotting in My Brother's Chest

I died on my eighteenth birthday.

The one who cut open my chest with a scalpel was my mother, one of the country's top cardiac surgeons.

The one who injected me with anesthetic so I couldn't struggle was my father, a renowned chief anesthesiologist.

Calmly, they removed my still-warm heart and placed it inside my brother, whose chest had already been opened beside me.

I was his living blood bank and his spare set of organs.

But they didn't know that my soul was floating above them, watching as my heart began to rot inside my brother.