Next Life, I’ll Find a Family That’s a Little Less Smart Chapter 02

Next Life, I’ll Find a Family That’s a Little Less Smart Chapter 02

Dad didn’t bother hiding the contempt in his voice.

“I told her. Beatrice was trying to teach her that grades aren’t everything.”

“And instead of being grateful, she plays the victim.”

Beatrice laughed, light and easy.

“Dad, that’s learned helplessness. When low-IQ subjects encounter stimuli beyond their processing range, they regress.”

“I’m just helping her expand her emotional threshold.”

Mom ran her fingers through Beatrice’s hair, beaming.

“My brilliant girl. You’re so far ahead of everyone your age.”

Then she glanced toward my door, and the warmth left her face.

“If Hazel had even half your brains, I’d die happy.”

I drifted to my bedroom door and looked through the solid wood.

My body was slumped by the bed. Still.

My eyes were locked on the crack under the door. My fingers were still clenched around the useless inhaler.

“Silas, the test subject’s heart rate has been flat this whole time. You think the bracelet’s malfunctioning?”

Beatrice tapped the tablet screen.

Silas leaned over and checked the readout.

“Impossible. That’s a medical-grade sensor. I calibrated it myself.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“She probably slipped it off and tossed it somewhere. Trying to get a rise out of us. It’s pathetic.”

Dad shook his head.

“That girl wastes every ounce of energy she has on playing games.”

“Just ignore her. She’ll drag herself out once she’s hungry enough, and then she’ll apologize.”

Mom yawned and started clearing the table.

“All right, let’s call it a night. Silas has the award ceremony tomorrow.”

The house went quiet. Late that night, Dad sat alone in the study, flipping through old photo albums.

He stopped on a photo of me at five. His hand hovered over it.

In the picture, I was wearing a little princess dress, grinning by the ocean.

Back then, I didn’t have asthma yet. No one had labeled me ‘low-IQ’.

Mom came in with a mug of warm milk and set it on the desk.

“What made you dig those out?”

Dad sighed. His thumb traced the edge of the photo.

“She was so little then. Running after the waves, yelling for me to come look.”

He frowned.

“Evelyn, do you think we’re too hard on her?”

Something shifted behind Mom’s eyes, just for a second, before her icy demeanor returned.

“Arthur, don’t go soft on me now.”

She pulled up a chair.

“We’re doing this for her. With Silas and Beatrice to carry her through life, she won’t get eaten alive out there.”

Mom took a sip of milk. She stated it like an absolute truth.

“The world is brutal. If we don’t toughen her up, someone else will break her.”

I hung in the air above them, listening to this garbage dressed up as parenting.

So you just stood by while Silas locked me in the Blackwood warehouse?

So you just let Beatrice shred the diploma I worked myself sick for?

Dad let himself be convinced.

“You’re right. She won’t toughen herself up on her own. That’s on us.”

He closed the album and shoved it to the back of the drawer.

“Once she’s had enough time to cool off, I’ll make it up to her.”

Footsteps in the hallway. Light, precise.

Silas was passing my door, checking the smart home tablet in his hand.

He stopped. Pulled up the thermal imaging feed for my room.

A soft beep.

Silas read the display and muttered to himself.

“Room temp’s dropping. Her body heat is converging with the ambient temperature.”

He scoffed.

“Impressive. She’s actually slowing her own metabolism. She really commits to the act.”

I screamed at him.

“I’m not faking it! I’m dead! I’m actually dead!”

Nothing answered but the empty hallway.

Silas turned and walked back to his room. The door clicked shut behind him.

Mom stayed in the study a while longer. She couldn’t seem to settle.

“I’m going to make her some honey lemon tea.”

“Her asthma always flares up when she’s upset. Something warm will help.”

Dad called after her.

“Go easy on the sugar. You know how easily she puts on weight.”

A little while later, the tea was ready.

Mom carried the steaming mug to my door.

She knocked.

“Hazel, honey. I made you some tea.”

Silence on the other side.

Lividity had already set into my skin. The blood had stopped moving. My limbs were locked in rigor mortis.

“Just take a deep breath, calm down, and drink it. Stop throwing a pity party.”

Her voice came muffled through the door.

I stared at that mug of tea. The irony was so thick I could’ve choked on it.

When I was suffocating and begging for help, you were slicing cake.

Now that I’m dead, you finally show up with tea.