My younger sister and I were our parents’ little princesses from the time we were born.
Dad would pick us both up and spin us around at the same time.
Mom would smile and say:
“Mommy and Daddy love both of you a hundred percent.”
But when a massive earthquake struck, I cried for my parents to help me from beneath the rubble.
When they heard me, they led the rescue team straight to me and pulled me out first.
But the moment I was rescued, the building behind me collapsed.
My sister’s cry, “Mommy, Daddy, I’m over here!” was buried beneath the rubble. Then there was no sound from her again.
After that day, my parents went mad with grief. They glared at me, their eyes blazing with hatred:
“It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t insisted we rescue you, the building wouldn’t have collapsed!
“Why wasn’t it you who died? Your sister should have been the one rescued!”
My crazed parents left me behind at the camp. When an aftershock struck that night, a huge boulder crushed me beneath the tent.
This time, I didn’t call for help. I let my consciousness slowly fade.
