When my brother pushed me and made me suffer some injuries, my parents turned a blind eye, it was Aunt Wanda who took me to her house and tended my wounds.
I never imagined that, even after I died, she would still be the only one who cared about giving me some dignity.
However, my father, as if he had just heard a joke, scoffed, “It’s enough if I buy her an urn to put her ashes in. Why would we hire a mortician? Wasn’t she one herself? If she thought she didn’t die with dignity, she can get up and fix herself.”
His harsh words hung in the air. Aunt Wanda, her face clouded with sadness, said nothing more. She cast one last glance at my body before shaking her head and walking away.
Only I, who was standing silently behind, could hear her whisper, “Poor girl.…”
Yes, I really was a poor girl.
The morning after my death, my sister and brother left for the city at the break of dawn.
My mother, as if it were a trivial task, found an old, torn mat from the neighbor’s chicken coop, wrapped my body in it and tossed it aside without a second thought.