Chapter 17 I Don’t Feel Sorry Anymore
A week slipped by quietly. At least on the surface.
One morning we sat around the breakfast table, eating. The kind of domestic calm that always felt staged.
“Mom,” I said lightly, resting my elbow on the table. “You should really sleep more. I think I see gray hairs.”
Her spine went rigid.
“What? Where?” Both hands flew to her hairline, panic bleeding into her voice.
That reaction, so vain and so immediate, almost made me laugh.
“Come here,” I said, already rising. “Let me check.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering.
But vanity won.
She turned her back to me, tilting her head just enough for me to look.
I stepped behind her, parting sections of hair with slow, deliberate care, letting the seconds stretch long enough to irritate her.
I could feel her impatience tightening, coiling.
“Well?” she asked finally, voice thin with dread. “Did you find it?”
My fingers closed around a few strands.
I yanked.
She gasped, hand flying to her scalp. “Ow! What was that for?”
I stepped back, apologetic. “Sorry. I thought those were the gray ones.”
“Show me.”
I lifted the strands between us. Brown. Healthy. Untouched by gray. Clean roots.
Perfect for DNA testing.
Her expression darkened.
I curled the hair into my palm. “I’m really sorry. Must’ve misjudged. Happens.”
I gave her a small, obedient smile and slipped away before she could say anything else.
In my room, I pulled a ziplock bag from the drawer and slid the hair inside. I labeled it neatly, the way I had with the others.
Three more bags waited in the drawer.
Apple’s hair.
Dad’s.
Mine.
All labeled. All waiting.
The next day, I mailed the sealed envelope under a fake name. The company promised results in two weeks. I checked my email every night anyway. I didn’t know what truth I was chasing. I only knew I needed proof of something.
Anything.
While I waited, I buried myself in schoolwork.
It wasn’t difficult. I had already lived through this curriculum once.
Everything came back faster now. Sharper. Cleaner. My mind no longer tangled up in anxiety or second-guessing, no longer dulled by the constant need to keep the peace.
In my past life, I had learned to hold myself back.
To dim myself.
If I scored too high, Apple unraveled. Crying. Spiraling. She dragged the entire household down with her.
Dad was always at work, and when home, he hid in his office like the rest of us were an inconvenience.
Mom hovered around Apple like she was something fragile. Something that might shatter if left unattended.
When I brought home good grades, hoping for even a sliver of recognition, Mom barely looked at them.
Once, she even accused me of bragging.
“You know Apple didn’t do well. Why would you rub your score in her face?”
Everything revolved around Apple.
Her emotions dictated the house.
If she was sad, the air turned heavy and quiet.
If she was anxious, everyone walked on eggshells.
If she woke screaming from nightmares, those sharp, piercing cries of Mommy, Daddy, save me, we all snapped awake like we were under attack.
I learned to disappear.
To make myself smaller. Quieter.
Easier to ignore.
But now?
Now I didn’t care.
I studied. I raised my hand. I answered questions before anyone else even processed them. And one by one, every test came back with the same neat verdict stamped at the top:
100%.
Perfect.
Exceptional improvement.
Teachers praised me openly. And across the classroom, I felt Apple staring.
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her fingers clenched around her pen.
During English, Mrs. Holmes handed back our research papers.
“Outstanding work, Ashley. Truly. Best in the class.”
She moved on.
Stopping at Apple’s desk, her voice softened into apology.
“You’ll need to push harder. These grades won’t get you into the college you want.”
Apple’s jaw tightened.
She didn’t just hate losing. She hated losing to me.
By the time I got home that day, Apple was curled on the couch, crying into Mom’s shoulder.
Predictable.
The script never changed.
“Everyone saw,” she whimpered. “Mrs. Holmes embarrassed me in front of the whole class.”
Mom looked at me like I’d personally orchestrated it.
“Apple had a terrible time today. Her grade…”
“That’s not my responsibility,” I said flatly. “Her emotions aren’t my job.”
Mom blinked, stunned.
In my last life, I would’ve apologized.
Soothing Apple, shrinking myself, desperately maintaining peace.
Not anymore.
I turned and headed upstairs without another word.
But Apple wasn’t finished.
Around ten that night, I had just stepped out of the bathroom when she cornered me at the top of the stairs, eyes trembling, voice soft and fragile.
"Ashley... can you help me with something?"
The helpless little-sister act.
One she’d perfected.
One I’d fallen for more times than I could count in my former life.
I stepped to the side, intending to walk past her.
She moved faster.
A stumble.
A gasp.
Then a dramatic fall, her body slipping down the stairs.
The thud echoed through the house.
Mom’s shriek came first. Dad’s heavy footsteps followed.
Apple lay curled on the bottom landing, clutching her arm, milking the moment for everything it was worth.
Mom rushed to her. “Baby, oh God, what happened?”
Apple looked up through wet lashes, then lifted her gaze toward me at the top of the stairs. Soft. Wounded.
Not accusing out loud.
Just implying it.
Just enough to condemn me.
I remained still at the top of the stairs, arms at my sides. My face was blank, detached, observing her theatrics like a clinical case study.
“Ashley,” Mom snapped, “what were you thinking? She’s a violinist, she can’t get injured!”
I opened my mouth, but Dad reached me first.
He stormed up the stairs and slapped me.
The sting blossomed across my cheek.
Just like before.
Just like in the last life.
Apple sobbed louder, feeding the drama.
“If she hurt her hand,” he started, then rushed back down to examine her fingers.
“She didn’t,” I said, voice cold. “And I didn’t touch her.”
“You were behind her,” Mom began.
Of course. The same blind loyalty. The same stupidity.
I let my lips curve into a slow, cold smile. “Where’s your evidence?”
“Evidence?” Mom barked. “We saw what happened.”
“Did you?”
I walked down the stairs slowly, one step at a time, meeting their eyes.
“Did any of you actually see me push her?”
Silence.
Mom recovered first, scoffing.
“It was just you and Apple there. If you didn’t do it, then who? A ghost? Or are you claiming Apple threw herself down the stairs?”
I held her gaze.
“Why not?” I said.
Mom sputtered. “That’s ridiculous!”
A hollow, humorless laugh slipped from me.
This time, Apple had misjudged her opponent.
“What if I can prove I didn’t touch her?”
I pointed toward a discreet spot near the railing.
“I put up a camera earlier. Someone kept stealing my charger, and I wanted proof.”
Apple froze.
Mom stiffened.
Dad’s expression wavered.
I opened my phone, logged into the app, and sent the clip to all three of their devices.
A moment later, all three of their phones buzzed.
“Go ahead,” I said, leaning casually against the railing. “Watch.”
The video played.
Apple stumbling backward on her own.
No contact from me.
Not even close.
Silence suffocated the room.
Dad didn’t look at me. He looked at Apple, really looked at her, for the first time in years.
His voice broke, sharp with something like disbelief.
“Apple… why didn’t you say you fell on your own?”
Apple panicked.
“I… I didn’t say she pushed me! It was a misunderstanding! I just slipped, Dad, please…”
Mom shifted uncomfortably, already trying to smooth the moment back into something manageable.
“Ashley… Apple probably got dizzy from skipping dinner. It wasn’t intentional. We were wrong. We’re sorry for accusing you.”
Dad’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his guilt.
He turned back to me, voice low. “Ashley… I’m sorry. That slap… I shouldn’t have…”
He took out his wallet. “Here. Take this.”
He pressed a stack of cash into my hand.
“Buy yourself something.”
Convenient.
How quickly their moral outrage dissolved when the blame shifted.
I didn’t bother replying. I simply took the money.
In the middle of the night, when the house was already quiet, the screaming began.
“Daddy! Daddy, save me!” Apple wailed.
Mom rushed into her room.
Dad followed.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the familiar chaos unfold. The hushed voices. The soft reassurances. The careful, endless soothing.
It was always the same.
Apple’s nightmares always came when the world didn’t bend far enough in her favor.
In my last life, those screams terrified me. They dragged up the guilt I tried so hard to bury… guilt over the past, over the reason she had those nightmares where she begged Daddy to save her.
But now?
Now I felt nothing at all.