After A Coma, My Twin Sister Returns For Revenge

June

Zoella POV ( Flashback)

It was around June when Mom went into labor, and we all knew she was struggling to carry the baby. Chloe and I were both fifteen at the time, trying to wrap our heads around everything. A couple of weeks earlier, Dad had hired a nanny to look after us while he took Mom to some kind of prenatal classes or appointments—whatever it was, it seemed important for pregnant women. But this nanny? She was a total nightmare. It felt like she had some serious issues with kids because whenever Dad was around, she acted completely normal, but the second he left, she turned into a total maniac. We couldn't even tell Dad about the times she'd tie us to chairs and make threats; he'd just think we were pulling one of our usual pranks to get rid of her so we could have the house to ourselves. Plus, the bodyguards weren't always around, and the worst part was that we had no way to defend ourselves—getting to the guns was out of the question unless we wanted to shoot her, which was definitely not an option.

She had a real passion for chess, and we were just her pieces on the board, often at the mercy of her whims. It was almost like she took pleasure in our struggles. With Dad having so many enemies, it felt like a given that they would target his kids, but I was actually looking forward to the arrival of a new sibling. Honestly, I was just so over seeing Chloe's face every single day; it felt like I was staring at a twisted version of myself.

During that time, I really couldn't stand her, but deep down, I knew I could never hurt her. She was my sister, after all, and I didn't want to break Mom's heart or end up in juvenile detention over my anger. On that fateful day, the nanny had a particularly cruel idea—she tied us to the big dartboard in the library. As she spun the board, I felt a surge of desperation; I had to survive this.

When she started hurling darts at us, her laughter echoed in a way that sent chills down my spine. In a moment of sheer instinct, I pushed Chloe aside, hoping the darts would hit her instead. My twisted logic was that if she got hurt, Dad would finally realize something was off while he was away. If I got hurt, he'd just think I was being reckless, but Chloe was always so careful; he'd believe her over me.

We finally managed to get rid of the nanny, but let me tell you, it was a real struggle. It all started when she teamed up with a couple of thugs and kidnapped Mom, who was about to give birth any day. Dad was in a tough spot, but he's always been sharp and quick to act. His love for Mom was undeniable, especially since they found out they were having a boy, which made him even more determined. He often said that if we were boys, life would be a lot simpler for him. He tried to toughen us up with daily training sessions, but Chloe was still all about her pink dresses, and I couldn't resist my chocolate treats. Instead of calling the cops, Dad decided to take matters into his own hands, grabbing some bodyguards and packing large guns before heading out, leaving us with Grandma.

We were terrified that Mom might not come back, and Chloe and I spent the night praying with Grandma, who kept urging us to go to sleep. But I couldn't close my eyes; I was glued to the window, waiting for Dad to return with Mom. I felt a mix of anger towards my mother for being so fragile, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for the baby, who was completely innocent in all of this. I was worried sick that something might happen to them.

When the clock struck 6:00 am, I heard the door creak open, and I leaped out of bed to wake Chloe. We were on high alert, thinking it might be the kidnappers, guns at the ready. But when we rushed downstairs, there was Mom, slumped in a chair, looking so weak. Dad was frantic, running around with water, trying to clean the blood off her. I felt paralyzed, unable to move from the stairs, just watching helplessly as he tended to her wounds.

He grabbed the phone and called the doctor, his voice was one of urgency and fear, while Grandma was busy looking after Mom, her hands trembling as she tried to soothe her. Chloe was there too, her face a mask of concern as she attempted to comfort Grandma, but I could see the worry etched in her features. I found myself frozen on the stairs, paralyzed by fear, my heart racing in my chest. I was terrified that Mom might lose the baby, the thought gnawing at me like a relentless ache.

When the doctor finally arrived, flanked by nurses who moved with practiced efficiency, Dad took Mom into the room, his expression a blend of determination and dread. Soon after, we heard her screams echoing through the house, raw and primal. I had no idea childbirth could be so excruciating; it was a sound that pierced through the walls and settled deep in my bones. At that moment, I promised myself I would never go through that pain. The thought of it was unbearable.

But then, amidst the chaos, I heard the baby cry—a sound so pure and filled with life that it sent a wave of relief washing over me. My legs finally found the strength to move, and I dashed to Dad's room, my heart pounding with anticipation to see my little sibling. However, as I burst through the door, I was met with an unsettling silence, the joyful cries abruptly cut off. Dad's expression turned somber, his eyes clouded with worry, and in that instant, I felt like a jinx, a harbinger of misfortune. I had been waiting for nine long months for a little brother or sister, and now it felt like I had somehow caused this tragedy.

The doctor's voice broke through the silence, explaining that Mom had lost a lot of blood from the stress of the delivery. My heart sank further, the weight of his words pressing down on me. When Chloe saw me lingering by the door, her frustration boiled over, and she rushed over, lashing out at me, her words sharp and accusatory. "This is your fault!" she shouted, her eyes blazing with anger. I could tell Dad sided with her, his disappointment palpable, as he never really liked me anyway. I felt like an outsider in my own family, a burden rather than a beloved child.

Mom, noticing the way Chloe was treating me, called me over, her voice soft yet strained. I couldn't handle it, so I just bolted. I dashed out of the house and made my way to the lake, where I let the tears flow. I really hated showing my emotions in front of others. After that incident, Dad put a stop to us having friends over, and we also stopped having babysitters.

Another moment that shook me to my core was when I was seventeen. Chloe got shot while we were walking home from school. Dad has a lot of enemies, and they wanted us gone, but somehow, I always seem to escape the worst of it. It's like there was this invisible force that kept me safe, while Chloe ended up taking the hits for me. Ever since we lost our little brother, she had called me bad luck. I wanted to name him June, but he never got the chance to carry that name. I've spent my life feeling inadequate, thinking I was doing my best, but it seems like the world just wasn't ready to accept me for who I was and what I aspired to be.

Chloe ended up with a gunshot scar on her shoulder, and I was grateful there were people around to rush her to the hospital; if it had just been me, she might not have made it. Dad laid the blame on me for not keeping an eye on her, insisting she always gets hurt when I'm around. Seriously? We were the same age; she could handle herself! He even suggested sending her to England for school, but Chloe didn't want to go to a boarding school. She said she'd feel lonely and miss her friends too much.

She managed to convince Dad, and eventually, he agreed to let her stay. I never really felt like I was his favorite; he always viewed me as someone who could fend for myself, and I couldn't really fault Mom for that. She had always wanted to connect with Chloe and me, but we never gave her the opportunity. We assumed she didn't care about us and just sided with Dad, but now I saw things differently. She seemed so fragile, always second-guessing herself.

There were times I longed for her to feed me, to chuckle at my silly jokes, to share stories while I rested my head on her lap and filled her in on my day, but my own pride and resentment held me back. We never allowed her to embrace her role as our mother; instead, we yelled at her, pushed her away, and treated her like she was insignificant. Deep down, I knew she loved us, and I felt that love too, but I never found the courage to express it. I never once said the words "I love you" to her.

I was harsh and dismissive towards her, and the thought of one day giving birth to twins who might end up resenting each other terrified me. If I ever have twins, I wanted to ensure they felt equally loved and cherished. I needed to foster an environment where love flourished between them, avoiding any favoritism. I refused to let them grow apart like Chloe and I did.