It doesn’t matter what my name is. What counts is that I’m 26 years old, a registered nurse working the night shift at St. Mercy General, and until three months ago, I really thought that blood was something precious. I thought that the individuals who gave you life were naturally programmed to safeguard it.
I was completely mistaken.
I’m writing this with hands that still shake slightly while, typing out a story that usually resides in the darkest parts of my nightmares. But I have to say it. I need to write it down to prove to myself that I made it through the night when my family tried to kill me.
Gwendolyn, my older sister, has loathed me since the day I was born. Our mother, Harriet, never let me forget that Gwendolyn’s reign as the golden only child ended abruptly when I arrived, screaming and red-faced, snatching attention that had belonged completely to her for seven beautiful years. Donald, our father, thought that fighting with your siblings made you stronger. He pushed us to compete with each other like other dads do with sports. But our competitions usually ended with me bleeding and Gwendolyn smiling.
I left home when I was eighteen with a trash bag full of clothes and a strong desire to not be their victim anymore. For three weeks, I slept in my 2003 Honda Civic and showered at the YMCA. I got through nursing school on scholarships and pure, obstinate anger. By the time I was twenty-four, I had my RN license, a studio apartment that smelled of lemon promise and safety, and a wall of quiet between me and my family.
But then the phone rang.
Harriet had cried into the phone, “It’s cancer.” “Stage two.” I need my girls. “I need my family to be whole.”
Every therapist I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen many, would have told me to hang up. But the weight of a mother’s tears draws you in, no matter how poisonous the center is. I took time off from work. I rented out my apartment to someone else. I drove 400 miles back to the house where I learned that love was conditional and suffering was money.
The house was still the same. The house continued to emanate the scent of aged potpourri and suppressed anger. There were faded posters, a twin bed, and a door that didn’t latch in my childhood bedroom. It was like a museum of the girl I used to be. When I was fourteen, I remembered pestering Donald for a lock. He laughed and said I was paranoid.
Three weeks into my stay, while I was taking care of my mother during the first few weeks of treatment, I found the documentation.
While I was cleaning out the closet in the guest room, I found a box hidden beneath some winter jackets. There were loan papers inside. Statements for credit cards. A second mortgage on a rental property I had never owned.
They were all mine.
I shook my hands as I turned the pages. My credit score, which I had worked hard to improve, was in bad shape. Gwendolyn was driving a Mercedes that she had borrowed money for. The jewelry retailer charged a total of $15,000. They stole my identity, forged my signature with scary accuracy, and burned my future to pay for their luxurious lives. The entire cost of the damage exceeded ninety thousand dollars.
I approached them at supper. I thought I would feel guilty. I thought there would be panic.
Harriet didn’t glance up from her mashed potatoes at all. Donald snorted and wiped his mouth with a tissue. Harriet remarked quietly, “You owed us.” “For taking care of you. This procedure merely makes things fair.
Gwendolyn only laughed, that high-pitched, shimmering cackling that had soundtracked every embarrassing moment of my childhood.
That was when I made up my mind. I didn’t yell. I didn’t get into a fight. I went to my room, packed my luggage, and made plans to leave at dawn. I shoved my hefty oak dresser against the door, like I had done every night since I got there. It was the only thing I could do to protect myself.
I fell asleep fitfully about midnight, exhausted from the betrayal. I dreamed of the lawsuit I would file as soon as I reached the county boundary.
At 2:47 A.M., the attack happened.
The last thing I saw before the world fell apart was the digital clock, so I know what time it is. I heard a scraping sound that startled me. The furniture was still in front of the entrance, but I had forgotten about the window. The old sash window, which had a broken latch, was the one Donald had promised to fix for ten years.
Gwendolyn was standing next to my bed. The silver pitcher in her hands shone in the moonlight. She had a smile on her face that was pure evil.
“That’s for living,” she muttered.
Then she turned the pot over.
It wasn’t water. It was oil. The substance was cooking oil, which was thick and boiling.
For a short second, the agony didn’t register; my brain couldn’t handle the shock of the heat. Then the pain came: a white-hot lightning bolt that tore through my world. It splattered over my arms, which I had put up to protect my face, and burned across my chest.
The scream that came from my throat sounded like an animal, a primal, animalistic sound that resonated off the walls. My skin started to bubble right away. I rolled off the bed and thrashed around, attempting to get away from my body.
“Help!”” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Mom! Dad! Please help me!”
I could see the bedroom door open through the tears and astonishment. They were able to get in because the dresser had been pushed back far enough.
Donald and Harriet were standing in the entryway.
I reached out to them with a shaking palm and begged. “Please,” I said, choking. “Please help.”
Donald leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Harriet was looking at me with the same look she had when she was watching a boring TV show: little attention and no empathy.
Donald remarked, “Stop screaming,” in an angry voice. “You’re waking up the people next door.”
Gwendolyn walked over my writhing body. Gwendolyn whispered, “She’s not listening,” and then she looked down at me.
She pulled her leg back and kicked me in the side. I wheezed and let the breath out of my lungs. I curled up in a fetal position to keep the carpet fibers from hurting my scorched skin. Gwendolyn knelt down, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and punched me in the jaw.
Crack.
The noise was louder than the cry. My jaw shifted to the side and detached from its hinge. There was blood in my mouth.
“Stay down,” she hissed. “Know your place.”
She rose up, rubbed her hands on her jeans, and proceeded to the door. My parents moved aside to let her pass, as if she were a queen. Donald grabbed the handle on the door.
He told me to “clean the mess up by morning.”
After that, he shut the door.
I heard their footsteps getting quieter. I heard the TV in the living room come on. A sitcom had a laugh track.
I lay on the floor for hours, going in and out of consciousness and a black, merciful blank. There was a pulse in the burns that made them throb. My jaw was open and useless. But the instinct to survive is a scary thing. I dragged myself across the floor as the sun started to leak gray light through the window that Gwendolyn had come through.
I found my phone under the bed where it had fallen. My fingers were burnt and wouldn’t work with me. It took me ten minutes to call three different numbers.
911.
I couldn’t move the dresser back, so the EMTs had to break down the door. I recall a young paramedic named Marcus looking at me and repeatedly saying, “Oh my god.”
The sirens didn’t wake my family up. Or they acted like they did.
The world was white and clean when I woke up. I was in the burn unit at St. Mercy General, which is where I work, even though I was a patient in a separate wing at the time. I had thick gauze over my arms. My jaw was closed with wires.
Dr. Nathaniel Reed, a doctor I didn’t know, was standing over me. A woman in a suit and a police officer in uniform were next to him. The woman was a hospital social worker.
Dr. Reed replied in a soft voice, “You’re safe.” “You’ve had surgery.” You have a broken jaw and severe partial-thickness burns on 30% of your upper body.
I attempted to talk, but the connections wouldn’t let me. There was a sudden rush of panic.
The social worker said, “Don’t try to talk.” “We know. You told the 911 operator everything before you fell asleep.
My gaze moved quickly throughout the room. I had to ask them not to let my relatives in. They would finish the job if they came. They would tell lies. They would turn it.
The police officer responded, “We have a problem.” “Your family is in the waiting room.” They want to see you right away.
The beeping on my cardiac monitor got louder and louder.
Dr. Reed touched my shoulder. “Pay close attention to what I’m saying. Because of how severe your injuries are and what you told dispatch, we have put ‘Code Purple’ into effect. Do you know what that is?”
I blinked. I was a nurse, but I worked at night in a different ward. I shook my head.
He said, “It’s a protective surveillance protocol for victims of domestic abuse who are at high risk.” “This room is set up to fail. There are hidden cameras and very sensitive microphones in the smoke detector and the ventilation system. “Right now, they are recording.”
He leaned in closer, and his eyes were quite focused.
“We need them to admit it,” the officer said in a low voice. We have the physical evidence from the scene, but a confession makes it official. We’re going to let them in. You don’t have to do anything but lie there. Is that something you can do?”
I looked up at the ceiling. The painkillers made my body feel heavy and separate. I remembered Gwendolyn’s smile. I thought about Harriet watching me burn.
I blinked once. Yes.
The cop nodded. “Okay.” Everyone out. “Send them in.”
The door swung open. And the people who planned my death came in.
They came into the room looking annoyed, as if my being in the hospital was a schedule problem they had to deal with. Gwendolyn was the first to go, and she looked fresh and refreshed. Harriet trailed behind, holding her handbag and sporting her “worried mother” face. Donald was last, looking at his watch.
They didn’t notice the small red light flashing in the smoke detector over the bed.
Gwendolyn exclaimed, “Well, look at you,” as she walked up to the bed. Her voice was full of fake tenderness. “Making such a fuss.”
I didn’t move at all. My jaw hurt because of the cables.
“The nurses called us,” Harriet remarked, and her voice was loud enough for everyone in the hallway to hear. “They said you were in an accident.”
She leaned up close and put her hand on the rail of my bed. Her nails were digging into the plastic. She made her voice sound like a hiss. “You should know that your sister didn’t mean to do that. It was a joke. “You just didn’t handle it well.”
A trick. It was a joke to pour boiling oil on a person who was sleeping.
Donald mumbled as he stood at the foot of the bed, “I think she probably did it to herself.” He stared at my arms, which were covered in bandages, with distaste. “For sympathy.” She’s always been over the top. Remember when she was ten and fell out of that tree? “Just trying to get attention.”
“Exactly,” Gwendolyn said with a chuckle. She took the pitcher of water off my bedside table, poured herself a glass, and drank it while looking at my burns. “I was only trying to teach her a lesson. She needs to be brought down a notch. She believes she’s so wonderful because she has a nursing degree and is “independent.” She deserved it.”
“She did,” Harriet said, smoothing off her skirt. “You ungrateful child.” We let her back in, and this is how she pays us back? “Is she making us go to the hospital at this hour?”
Gwendolyn hovered over me, her face only a few inches from mine. I could smell her costly perfume, which I bought with my stolen credit card.
“Listen to me,” she said softly. You were cooking when the police asked. You spilled it. You fell and smacked your face on the counter. You saw how easy it was for me to come into your room, so if you say anything else… Think about how simple it will be to finish this.
Donald laughed. “She won’t say anything. She knows better.
They were standing around me, a terrible court. They smiled. They groomed themselves. They felt strong. They thought they couldn’t be touched.
Thereafter, the door opened.
Dr. Reed came back in, but this time he had company. Two big hospital security guards stood on either side of him, and behind them stood Detective Warren and two police officers in uniforms.
The mood in the room changed right away.
“Mr. and Mr. and Mrs. Crawford? Gwendolyn? Dr. Reed’s voice was as short, professional, and icy as ice. “We need to show you something in the office.”
The mask on Harriet’s face smashed back into place. “Is there a problem?” We’re only here to help our daughter.
The detective stepped forward and said, “It will only take a minute.” He didn’t grin. “Security procedure.”
Gwendolyn looked like she was annoyed. “Okay. “Let’s get this over with.”
They left, giving me one last threatening glare. They believed they were going to fill out some forms. They hoped they could scare the doctors.
I lay still in the room, listening.
Five minutes later, the screaming began.
It echoed down the corridor, but the thick fire doors muted it. I could hear Donald screaming in anger. I heard Harriet’s frustrated, high-pitched scream. And then I heard Gwendolyn’s unmistakable cry. It wasn’t phony tears; it was the scared howl of a bully who had finally been caught.
The door to my room opened once more. Patricia, a nurse I knew, came in. She was crying.
While monitoring my IV, she whispered to me, ‘They watched it.’ ‘They saw the recording.’ The sound was obvious. Gwendolyn says you deserved it. Your mom said it was a joke. Your dad said you did it for pity.
She held my hand tightly and didn’t touch the IV line.
“They’re taking them into custody right now. All of them.
I shut my eyes, and for the first time in twenty-six years, the knot of fear in my chest started to come undone. But the universe still had plans for them.
Detective Warren came back an hour later. He sat next to my bed, appearing unhappy but cheerful.
“We searched your parents’ house while they were here,” he told me. “We found the pot.” We noticed your blood on Gwendolyn’s sneakers.
He stopped and took a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket.
“And we found this.” “And we found this.”
The journal was bound in leather. Harriet’s diary.
“She wrote it all down,” the detective continued, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Years of it.” The abuse. The deception with money. The plot to get you to come back home. It’s more than simply a confession, son. It’s a plan for premeditation.”
The trial happened on a dreary day in November, exactly one year after the attack.
I sat in the witness box with my jaw mended but still a little crooked. Long sleeves concealed my wounds. I sat in the front row with Margaret Chen, a vicious shark of a lawyer who took my case for free.
Gwendolyn wouldn’t look at me. She wore a plain prison jumpsuit and sat between her public attorneys. She didn’t have on any designer clothes or salon hair. Harriet and Donald were sitting at a different table, looking lost and little. Their lawyer had tried to say they were insane. It didn’t work.
The jurors had watched the footage. They had heard the sound coming from the hospital room. They read the journal entries where Harriet called me “the mistake” and wrote out her plot to steal my identity.
The decisions came quickly.
Gwendolyn: Guilty of aggravated assault with intent to murder and cause serious bodily harm. You are guilty of identity theft. Guilty of threatening a witness.
18 years in state jail.
Harriet: Guilty of being an accomplice to attempted murder. Guilty of cheating.
Ten years in prison.
Donald: Guilty as an accomplice. They committed financial crimes.
The sentence is 8 years.
The judge stared at them over her glasses. She responded, her voice shaking with anger, “In thirty years on the bench, I have never seen a family so lacking in humanity.” You are not parents. You are hunters.
Harriet looked at me as the bailiffs moved in to handcuff them. She didn’t appear smug for the first time. She looked scared.
“I’m your mom!”” She shouted and pulled me toward the side door. “You owe us!”“
I got up. I looked her straight in the eye. And I spoke, even though my jaw hurt.
“The debt is paid.”
But prison wasn’t enough. Margaret Chen helped me sue them in civil court. We went after everything. The civil judgment ruined their legacy, but the identity theft ruined my credit.
We took their things. The house where I was tortured was sold to help pay for my medical bills. They sold out their retirement accounts. The Mercedes Gwendolyn drove was taken back and sold, and I got the money.
I got back almost four hundred thousand dollars. Maybe it was blood money, but it was enough to buy a little house in a town where no one recognized my name.
The hardest part occurred after the gavel hit the table. The quiet.
I had always defined myself by how much they hated me. I felt lost without it. I had to figure out who I was when I wasn’t being chased.
I began going to therapy two times a week. I got a rescue dog named Pickle, a three-legged bulldog who hissed at anyone who talked too loudly.
And I went back to work.
My first shift back at St. Mercy General was scary. But as I strolled around, I realized something. The nurses, doctors, and security guards were like family to me. They had come together to support me. When my family tried to kill me, they kept me safe.
On a wet Tuesday, a good-looking firefighter named Daniel came to the ER because he had inhaled smoke. I was his nurse. He joked about how serious I looked. I smiled. He wanted to know about the small scar on my jawline.
“I fought a dragon,” I informed him.
“Did you win?” he asked.
“I’m still standing, right?””
Daniel had lived in foster care as a child. He knew how to fix things that were broken. Two years later, we got married on a beach, with Pickle as the ring bearer. There were no relatives there. No ghosts were asked to come.
The Department of Corrections wrote to me last week.
Harriet had died while in prison. A cardiac attack.
The chaplain asked me if I wanted to take her corpse or her belongings.
I sat on the back porch and watched Daniel throw a ball for Pickle. I gazed at the garden I had planted. There were tomatoes, sunflowers, and other plants growing from the ground. I stroked the scar on my arm, which seemed like a map of how I lived.
I took the phone.
I told the chaplain, “No.” “I don’t know that lady.”
I hung up.
When my sister burned me, she laughed. My parents laughed at my hurt. They assumed they were putting me in the ground.
They didn’t know I was a seed.
The cosmos has a way of putting things back in order. The truth rises to the top like oil in water, but it takes time and pain. I am 26 years old. I have scars, money, love, and freedom.
That’s the most effective way to exact revenge.
