My Sister Is the Butcher

When the icy water enveloped me, I still thought it was Sandra's prank, who's my sister.
She stood by the bathtub, curls draped over her shoulders, clutching the bath ball I had just bought.
When she smiled, her dimples were exactly like mine, but there wasn't a trace of warmth in her eyes.
Amanda, why mom always praises you? She bent over, her fingers skimming the water's surface, stirring tiny ripples.
I tried to lift my head, but my throat was suddenly filled with water, choking me.
The suffocating grip clutched my heart instantly. I waved my hand to push her away, but she didn't move an inch.
Her knees pressed against my chest with such force, it felt like my ribs would snap.
"You've taken too much." She leaned close to my ear, her voice barely a whisper, "My room, my certificate, and our mother's love."
Before losing consciousness, I caught the madness in her eyes.
When I came to again, there was a sharp pain.
Not the suffocation of drowning, but the dull ache of bones being cleaved apart.
I lay on the cement floor of the basement, Sandra holding a bloodstained saw, some parts of my body scattered on the ground.
Her white dress was splattered with red, like a bed of rotten flowers in full bloom.
"By doing so, you'll never be able to take my thing again." She crouched down and poked my face with a saw. "Our mother will only ever have one daughter—me."
When the darkness surged up, I thought this was the end.
The next time I regained consciousness, it was the hum of machines.
I was lying inside a transparent capsule, bathed in pale blue light.
My body felt as if soaked in warm water, every inch of my skin slowly reconstructing.
Through the blur, I saw someone in a white coat standing outside, holding a tablet and recording something.
"Neural connection complete, skin tissue regeneration rate at 98%." That voice was soft, carrying a mechanical calmness.
When the cabin door opened, I tried moving my fingers.
There was sensation at my fingertips; I could feel the bedsheet beneath me, soft as clouds.
I looked down at my hand—it was exactly as before, even the burn scar on the web of my fingers from childhood remained.
"3D bioprinting technology can replicate every detail of your body." The weird man handed me a set of clothes. "Including memories."
I put on the clothes; the person in the mirror was still Amanda, but inside my chest there was no heartbeat, no flutter—only a cold emptiness.
Fragmented memories suddenly erupted, like sharp thorns piercing my skin.
When we were five, both Sandra and I squeezed onto the tiny bed in the nursery.
And mom entered, holding a new doll, but handed it straight to Sandra.
"Sandra is fragile; let her play first." She stroked Sandra's hair without so much as a glance at me.
I clutched the worn cloth doll tightly, my nails digging into its fabric.
At ten, we both were admitted to the top junior high school.
Mom bought Sandra a new backpack and dress, but gave me the worn clothes our cousin had outgrown.
"Amanda is sensible and doesn't fuss over these things. " She smiled as she spoke, but I clearly saw Sandra's smile hidden behind her back.
What hurt me the most was last year's graduation thesis.
I stayed up late for three months writing the design proposal, saved it on my computer, ready to submit the next day.
When I woke in the morning, the computer had been wiped clean.
Sandra took my proposal and spoke confidently at the defense meeting, earning applause from everyone.
I rushed over to confront her, but she cried and threw herself into mom's arms.
"It was Amanda who asked me to help revise it. She said she was nervous and wanted me to present first."
Mom held my hand, her tone reproachful: "Amanda, why are you so immature? Sandra is only trying to help you."
That day, I cried on the playground for a long time; the wind dried my tears, leaving only a cold chill on my face.
"She's here." The man in the white coat suddenly spoke, pointing out the window.
I walked to the window and saw Sandra's car parked below.
She carried shopping bags, humming as she entered the stairwell, a complete contrast to the madness she displayed the day of the dismemberment.
As the door opened, she saw me, and the bags in her hands clattered to the floor.
The fruit rolled across the floor; the apple came to a stop at my feet.
Her face instantly drained of color, lips trembling: "You... you should be dead!"
I looked at her, slowly curling my lips into a smile—the same way she used to smile at me: "Oh, dear sister, I missed you."

As night fell, I put on makeup in the bathroom.
The foundation was painted deathly pale; the eyeliner stretched long, the ends flicked upward as if trying to hook something.
I drew a terrifying wound on my neck with red ink, then tousled my hair so it fell over my face.
The person in the mirror looked like a ghost crawling out of a grave.
Sandra was watching TV in the living room, the volume turned up loud, as if trying to hide something.
I was barefoot, stepping on the floor without making a sound.
When I reached behind her, she was still scrolling through her phone, her fingers moving swiftly across the screen.
"Sandra," I whispered, deliberately making my voice hoarse.
She suddenly whipped her head around, and the phone in her hand fell onto the sofa with a thud.
Seeing my face, she gasped sharply, shrinking back. "Don't come any closer!"
I took a step forward; she stepped back until her back was pressed against the wall, with nowhere left to retreat.
"Do you remember you have killed me once?" I raised my hand and touched the wound on my neck. "Why are you still afraid of me?"
Suddenly, she grabbed the fruit knife from the table, the tip pointed at me, her hand trembling.
"You're not human beings! I'm not afraid of you!" She shouted loudly, but fear still trembled in her voice.
I smiled and stepped forward until the knife's tip pressed against my chest.
"Sandra, just stab me." I looked into her eyes. "Like last time, kill me again."
She closed her eyes and suddenly forced herself hard.
The tip of the knife pierced my skin, but this time, no blood poured out.
She froze, opened her eyes, and stared at the knife in my chest in disbelief.
I reached out, pulled the knife from my chest, and handed it back to her.
"No blood—isn't that strange?" I shook the knife in my hand. "Because I am no longer the Amanda I used to be."
The sound of the door being pushed open suddenly echoed.
Mom walked in carrying her briefcase, and her face immediately darkened when she saw the scene in the living room.
"What are you two fighting about now?" She threw her bag onto the sofa, her tone thick with impatience.
Sandra immediately broke down in tears, throwing herself into mom's arms and pointing at me: "Mom! She's a ghost! She came back for me!"
Mom looked at me, her brows deeply furrowed: "Amanda, are you scaring your sister again with your tricks?"
The knife in my hand clattered to the floor.
"Tricks?" I stared at mom, tears suddenly streaming down my face: "She killed me, dismembered me, and buried me out on the outskirts—and you didn't do anything?"
Mom's body tensed briefly, then she pushed Sandra away and stepped in front of me. "Don't talk nonsense! How could Sandra do something like that?"
"I'm not lying!" I raised my voice. "That day, I was in the basement, and she used a saw..."
"Enough!" Mom interrupted me, her voice cold as ice. "Even if something happened, you're the wrong one!"
"You've always been better than her since you were kids. Can't you just be generous and don't make her sad?"
"She's your sister; you should give in to her!"
I looked at mom and suddenly laughed.
So she had known everything all along.
That day, Sandra was dismembering in the basement; she must have heard the noises outside the door.
But she chose to feign deafness and silence.
Because in her heart, only Sandra was the daughter worthy of love.
"Fine, I'll do it." I turned and walked toward the door. "I've given my life to her. Are you satisfied now?"
Mom stopped me and summoned the housemaid.
"Lock her in the storage room. Without my permission, don't let her come out." There was not a trace of hesitation in her voice.
The housemaid pushed me toward the storage room, piled with old furniture; the dust made me cough.
The moment the door locked, I heard Sandra's laughter and our mother's comforting words: "Don't be afraid; she's just throwing a tantrum. It'll pass in a few days."
In the darkness, I found something hard and cold.
It was the saw—the very one Sandra used during the dismemberment.
The saw's teeth still bore dark red stains, releasing the scent of rust and blood.
I clutched the saw, sitting on the floor.
The pain of being pushed down the stairs by Sandra as a child, the injustice of having my good grades stolen, the sorrow of being ignored by mom, and the despair I felt during the dismemberment...
All the emotions surged up, overwhelming me like a tidal wave.
I began to tremble, not from cold, but from fear.
Fear that these days would never end, fear that I would never escape this family's prison.
The saw wobbled in my hand as I stared at it, and suddenly an idea formed.
If I died again, would mom feel even a little sad?

The next morning, I was awakened by the sound of the door opening.
Sandra stood in the doorway, holding a flashlight, her face pale.
"Come with me." Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't slept all night.
I followed her out of the house and got into her car.
We drove for a long time, leaving the city behind, until we stopped in a desolate forest.
The place was remote, with only the sound of wind rustling through the leaves — eerie and chilling.
Sandra held a flashlight and walked deeper into the woods.
I trailed behind her.
When we reached a large locust tree, she stopped.
The soil beneath was freshly turned, still damp.
"Didn't you say I killed you?" She turned around, the flashlight beam cutting across my face. "Dig it up and see if you are still inside."
She pulled a shovel out of the car and tossed it in front of me.
"Dig!" she yelled, "Prove it to me! Dig it open and see!"
I picked up the shovel and began to dig.
The soil was hard; after only a few digs, the palms of my hands had blistered.
Sandra stood beside me, the flashlight beam fixed on the bottom of the pit.
When I had dug half a meter deep, the shovel struck something hard.
It was a black plastic bag, swollen and tense.
I stopped and stared at Sandra.
Her face grew even paler; she remained silent.
I kept digging and pulled out the plastic bag.
The bag was torn open, revealing a piece of fabric — it was the pajamas I wore that day.
Suddenly, the memory became clear.
That day, while I struggled in the bathtub, I saw mom standing at the bathroom door.
She held a towel but didn't come in to save me.
She just stood there, watching Sandra press me underwater until I stopped moving.
Later, Sandra dragged me to the basement to dismember me, while mom sat at the top of the stairs.
I heard her tell Sandra, "Make sure to clean up thoroughly, don't leave any traces."
So it turned out they had long ago conspired together.
To them I was nothing but a creep, and my disappearance was just their relief.
"Did you see that?" Sandra walked over and kicked the plastic bag. "You're inside, yet you're standing right here."
"What thing exactly are you?" Her voice was choked with fear, laced with madness.
Suddenly, she pulled a piece of wood from her bag, carved with strange symbols and blackened with age.
"This is Thunderstrike Wood, a great weapon to kill ghosts." She raised the wood toward me. "I don't care whether you're a ghost or something else. If you keep lingering around me, I'll strike you down with this!"
I looked at the Thunderstrike Wood in her hand and suddenly laughed.
She's always like this: when facing problems she can't solve, she resorts to childish tricks.
As a child, when she couldn't overpower me, she'd cry and run to mom; now that she's afraid of me, she reaches for the Thunderstrike Wood.
"Do you really think this thing is going to help?" I stepped forward; she stepped back. "Sandra, what you fear isn't ghosts—it's your own guilty."
Without warning, she threw the Thunderstrike Wood to the ground and ran off.
I didn't catch up with her; I only stared at the plastic bag.
Inside, the past me had already decayed, releasing a putrid stench.
But I don't feel scared at all—only a liberating sense of relief.
Because that bullied, neglected, and murdered Amanda is already dead.
What lives now is Amanda, who fears neither pain nor death.
Back home, I opened Sandra's computer.
Her graduation thesis was still there—it was a plagiarized version of mine.
I opened the document, changed all the data inside, and reversed the conclusion.
At the end, I added an acknowledgments section, detailing how she plagiarized my work and lied to me.
Then, I submitted the document through the school's system.
When Sandra came back and saw me in her room, she immediately rushed over, trying to snatch the computer.
"What have you done?" She screamed, frantically pressing random keys on the keyboard.
I smiled and pushed her aside. "I didn't do much, just helped you improve your graduation thesis."
Three days later, the school's notice arrived.
Sandra was expelled for plagiarism and fabricating data in her thesis.
She wept at home for a long time, and mom scolded me as ungrateful, saying I had ruined my sister's future.
I sat on the sofa, watching the hysterical scene between mother and daughter, feeling not the slightest ripple in my heart.
This is only the beginning.
What Sandra owes me, what mom owes me—I will take it all back, piece by piece.

The Cheetah is a company launched by our mother.
And the company's anniversary celebration was scheduled at a hotel downtown.
She started preparing a week in advance, bought Sandra a new evening dress, but never mentioned getting anything ready for me.
"Amanda, just wear one of your old dresses that day." She smoothed Sandra's dress hem as she said, "Anyway, I know you don't like all the fuss—just come along to show how prosper our company is."
I nodded and said, "Okay."
But I had already made my plan in my heart.
On the day of the celebration, the hotel was teeming with life.
Guests wore splendid clothes, holding glasses of wine, chatting and laughing.
Mom stood on the stage, holding a microphone, radiating confidence.
"Today, I am going to announce an important decision." Her gaze swept across the room and finally settled on me. "I have decided that my youngest daughter, Amanda, will inherit the company."
The entire room erupted into uproar.
Sandra, standing below the stage, instantly turned pale, nearly dropping the glass of wine in her hand.
I stepped onto the stage and took the microphone from mom.
"Thank you for your trust, mother." I smiled and said, "I will manage the company well and not disappoint everyone's expectations."
Sandra rushed onto the stage, trying to snatch the microphone from me. "Mom! Why are you giving the company to her? I'm the elder one!"
Mom stopped her and whispered, "Don't cause a scene; there are many important guests today."
But Sandra ignored her and began shouting, "She's a ghost! She's a fraud! I killed her..."
Mom quickly covered her mouth and pulled her off the stage.
The guests began whispering among themselves, their eyes full of curiosity and suspicion as they looked at us.
I had long expected Sandra to make a scene.
So I slipped something into her drink in advance — a drug that clouds the mind but doesn't cause immediate unconsciousness.
Before long, Sandra began acting strangely.
She broke free from mom's grasp and ran wildly through the hall, shouting, "Don't kill me" and "It wasn't me."
Then, suddenly, she started stripping.
First her coat, then her skirt, until she was down to just her underwear.
The guests screamed, pulling out their phones to take pictures.
Mom rushed over to stop her but was pushed aside. "Don't touch me! You're just like her—both trying to hurt me!"
Mom's face flushed bright red, angry and frantic, and she raised her hand to slap Sandra.
A loud "smack"rang out.
Sandra froze for a moment, then began to cry like a child.
"Mom, why don't you love me? Why do you always take her side?" She sat on the floor, pounding it, crying, "I'm your daughter!"
Mom looked at her, her eyes devoid of pity, filled only with disgust.
"I never had a daughter like you." She turned to the security guard and said, "Take her to the psychiatric hospital. Don't let her disgrace herself here again."
The security guard grabbed Sandra and escorted her out.
She looked back at me, her eyes filled with hatred: "Amanda, I will never let you go!"
I stood on the stage, watching her being taken away, feeling not a shred of happiness.
Only an emptiness inside, as if something had been torn away.
Mom came over and patted my shoulder: "Well done. The company will rely on you from now on."
I looked at her and suddenly felt she was a complete stranger.
This woman, for the sake of the company's reputation, could personally send her own daughter to a psychiatric hospital.
She never loved us; all she cared about was her career and her image.
After the celebration ended, I returned home.
I entered Sandra's room; her belongings were still there.
Pink dolls, dresses hanging throughout the wardrobe, and the diary she had written.
I opened the diary, which was filled with jealousy towards me.
"Today, mom praised Amanda again, even though she clearly did nothing."
"Amanda's graduation thesis is better than mine. I must get it, or mom will be disappointed."
"I killed Amanda. Mom seems to know, but she said nothing. She still cares for me."
I closed the book and threw it into the trash.
These malicious words do not deserve to exist in this world.
But I know Sandra's hatred will not vanish simply because she's been sent to the psychiatric hospital.
The grudge between us is far from over.

Download the SnackShort app, Search 【 437566 】reads the whole book.

My Fiction

App Store

Google Play

SnackShort

App Store

Google Play