Chapter 1Watch Me Die In Your Machine

When I was eight years old, I was playing in the yard when I heard it—a sharp, sickening crack from deep inside my own bones.

It reminded me of the heavy medical braces sitting on my sister’s nightstand. Daisy had Osteogenesis Imperfecta. People called her a "glass doll." In our house, gravity itself was the enemy, and every ounce of my mother’s attention was a shield held over Daisy, protecting her from the inevitable break.

I wondered then if I had caught it too. I wondered if, by wearing the braces, the throbbing in my limbs would stop. I wondered if Mom would look at me with that same frantic, desperate devotion if I were broken, too.

I was clumsily trying to strap the heavy metal supports onto my legs when Mom walked in.

She didn't see a hurting child. She saw a thief. She stripped the braces off me with a violence that left me shaking, her eyes dark with a disappointment that cut deeper than the ache in my shins.

"Who told you that you could touch your sister’s things?" she snapped. "June, there has to be a limit to this attention-seeking. I am exhausted enough caring for one sick child. I don’t have room for your theatrics."

I tried to tell her. I tried to explain that my bones felt like they were splintering from the inside out, but she wouldn't hear it.

She dragged me into the living room and shoved me into the automated orthopedic traction frame Daisy used every afternoon. The cold mechanical arms clamped onto my wrists and ankles, clicking into place with predatory precision.

"You want to be sick so badly?" Mom hissed, her voice trembling with fatigue. "This is what Daisy goes through every single day. If you want her life, you can have the treatment that comes with it. I’m going to 'cure' you."

The machine began to hum, the pressure building as the motorized winches began to pull. I heard the sound again—crack, crack, crack—the sound of my own internal architecture failing.

I screamed. I told her it was real, that it hurt, that I could feel things snapping.

But Mom just looked at me as if I were a bad actress overplaying a part. She reached out and turned the dial, cranking the intensity up to the level Daisy used for her severe spinal realignments.

"Daisy handles this without a peep," Mom said, turning toward the door. "Stop being so fragile."

I sat in the machine, the world dissolving into a white-hot haze of agony. Slowly, mercifully, my consciousness began to flicker out.

* * *

Mom clapped her hands together, a signal that the lesson was over. She helped Daisy into her wheelchair, smoothing her hair with a tenderness she had never shown me, and headed out for Daisy’s weekly hospital check-up.

The door clicked shut. The house fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

I was curled inside the machine, my body twisted at an unnatural angle. I tried to reach for the red emergency stop button, but as soon as my fingers brushed the plastic, the mechanical arm lunged, pinning my hand back against the frame.

I buckled. Tears splattered against the cold steel. The machine continued its slow, rhythmic crush. Every breath felt like a serrated blade in my lungs.

I tried to call out to our smart-home hub, my voice a wet, broken gargle:

"Call... Mom."

"Video... call..."

The hub’s camera lens swiveled toward me, its blue light pulsing once, twice.

"Opening video recording mode," the AI's cheerful voice chirped. "Capturing your beautiful family moments."

No. Not that. Stop.

I wanted to scream, but the pain had finally reached my throat, choking the sound into a silent sob. The camera’s ring turned a deep, blood-red—the only light in the darkening room.

The house grew still, save for the low, industrial drone of the motor. I looked down at my arm; it was bent in a way no arm should be, the wrist swollen into a dark, angry knot.

I wanted my parents. I remembered being very small, when a skinned knee was enough to make Mom scoop me up and kiss the pain away. When did I stop being worth the worry? Was I just not "good" enough? Not "sick" enough to love?

The tears on my face turned cold.

The pain reached a crescendo, a blinding flash of lightning behind my eyes, and then... it just stopped.

Maybe I shouldn't have touched Daisy’s things. Mom was so tired. I was just one more burden she didn't need.

I’m sorry, Mom, I thought, looking at the timer on the machine’s display. Three minutes left. I won’t be a problem anymore. I’ll just sleep for a bit.

When I opened my eyes again, the red light on the camera had gone dark. The system was back on standby.

I looked at the clock on the wall and felt a jolt of panic.

Three hours? I’d been asleep for three hours? My head felt heavy, like it was filled with cotton. I needed to get up. I needed to start dinner. It was almost five-thirty.

Then, the front door opened.

Daisy was in her wheelchair, a fresh cast on her leg, looking pale and exhausted. I tried to flash her a smile, the kind I always used to make her laugh when she was feeling down.

But Daisy just stared straight ahead, her eyes hollow. She didn't even blink.

My hand stayed frozen in mid-air. I felt a pang of hurt. Is it not funny today? You usually laugh.

Mom pushed the chair into the living room. Her eyes swept the space, her brow furrowed into a deep line of irritation.

"June! Are you serious? No dinner? Nothing?"

She gestured toward the traction machine. "I leave you here to reflect on your behavior, and you just decide to take a nap?"

I turned, confused. I’m not sleeping, Mom. I’m right here.

But as I followed her gaze, I saw it.

I saw a small, crumpled figure inside the machine.

I looked down at my own hands. They were translucent, like a memory fading in the sun.

I tried to speak, but only a sob came out.

Oh, I realized. I’m dead.