My Sister Paralyzed by Her Husband, I Cursed Him

My brother-in-law, Bernard Gilbert, was caught cheating with the actress Freya Fox. My sister walked in on them.

Humiliated and furious, he tampered with the safety harness she used for stunts, and she fell six meters from the steel rigging.

Then he strolled into her hospital room with Freya on his arm.

"You never thought Freya could act. You just had to fight her for that role."

"Serves you right, ending up like this. That part was always meant for Freya."

My sister had just come out of surgery, tubes running all over her body. She couldn't speak.

All she could do was lift a trembling hand and press her fingerprint onto the role-release agreement.

After that, Bernard poured tens of millions into that film, forced Freya into the spotlight, and it exploded.

Everyone online praised the two of them for recognizing each other's talent.

And that same night, the doctor told me my sister's spine was damaged. Permanent paralysis.

I threw myself over her hospital bed and couldn't stop sobbing.

Bernard just rolled his eyes.

"You're a cripple now. Can't shoot anything. Per the contract, you pay three million in penalties and get lost."

"And the divorce papers. I'll have someone bring them over in a couple of days."

I lost it and rushed at him to shove him off, but he threw me aside with one arm. My forehead cracked against the bed rail and my vision went white.

There was no light left in my sister's eyes. I understood. She couldn't go on living.

But what Bernard didn't know was that I had studied a kind of dark magic, one that could send a person who dies full of hatred onto the path of the vengeful spirit.

I would make sure he never died a peaceful death.

...

I went to fetch water for my sister, and I heard Bernard's two assistants whispering in the hall.

"Did you hear? Sophie Coleman's harness, she loosened it herself because she thought it was strapped too tight."

"What was she even thinking? How can anyone be that careless on set?"

"Who'd have thought being unprofessional would land her like this. She brought it on herself."

I stood outside the door and bit down on my lip until I stopped myself from charging in.

Bernard was the one who tampered with it, and I couldn't produce a shred of proof.

I choked back my tears and pushed open the door, and I heard my sister whimpering.

Her spine was injured. She couldn't even turn over.

I went to help her, and the moment my hand reached out I felt warmth.

The sheet was wet.

I froze for a second, then pulled back the blanket.

A large patch of the bedding was soaked through. She couldn't control it. She'd lost her bladder.

I crouched by the bed, biting my lips to keep silent, tears dropping over and over onto the back of my hand.

Then the door opened.

Bernard walked in, Freya's arm looped through his.

The second she stepped inside she lifted a hand to cover her nose, her face twisting. "What is that awful smell?"

Bernard swept a glance over my sister, disgust plain on his face.

"Look at the state of you. Just seeing you makes me sick."

"Sign the divorce papers already, so I don't have to keep coming to this hospital every day."

I shot to my feet and lunged at him, and from somewhere my sister found the strength to grab my wrist.

Her lips were bloodless, her voice so hoarse I could barely hear it.

"My accident was a safety failure on the production's part. The company owes me compensation, not the other way around."

Bernard stared for a second, then burst out laughing.

He clutched his stomach in an exaggerated way. "Listen to what everyone out there is saying about you. Unprofessional, and you brought it on yourself!"

"And you still want to squeeze the company for money? You've got the nerve?"

The company's interests were always on his lips.

But how Starglow Media got established in this industry, Bernard knew perfectly well.

In the two years my sister was at her biggest, he didn't even hold a real position. He trailed after her all day, carrying her bags and handing her water.

Outsiders all called him "Sophie's assistant."

She was the one who pulled him into this world, and even the money to register the company came out of her paychecks.

Later, when Freya got signed to the company, Bernard changed completely.

The brand endorsements my sister worked so hard to land, Bernard handed to Freya with a single word.

Even the night scenes my sister shot running a fever, the final cut was all Freya's best moments.

No one remembered whose those opportunities had been to begin with. All anyone knew was that the one who came out shining was always Freya.

Bernard stood and looked down at my sister.

"Three million. Not a cent less. You don't pay, you wait for the court summons."

She kept her eyes shut and didn't answer him.

He crouched down again, his voice suddenly soft.

"Sophie, if you cooperate with me, I can knock some off. You know how hard things are for the company right now."

She turned her face the other way, unwilling to give him a single word.

His expression darkened. He stood and brushed the dust off his knees.

"Tomorrow Freya's coming to see you at the hospital. I'm bringing a few reporters. Play along. Let everyone see how good she is to you, holding no grudge."

"She's really trending right now. Building a positive image matters."

Something in me went off. I shot to my feet.

"No way! My sister's like this, and you want her in front of the cameras acting out a show with you?"

Freya leaned into Bernard's shoulder, her voice trembling with hurt.

"I just want to help her. If the media films it, the public will care more about her health. Maybe we can even raise donations for her, help her recover sooner."

"If she looks down on my good intentions, then I won't flatter myself."

Bernard glanced at me, his eyes so dark it was frightening. "You're in this business too, aren't you? Want to see if I can make sure you never work again?"

My sister's eyes flew open.

She knew Bernard did exactly what he said he'd do.

Years ago, a bit-part actress traded a few words with Freya, and by the next day the whole industry had blacklisted her. She still hasn't landed a role since.

"I agree!" My sister's voice was hoarse and dry. "Just leave my sister alone."

Bernard nodded, satisfied, and led Freya out.

Early the next morning the door swung open and seven or eight reporters poured in.

Their lenses were almost shoved into her face, flashes going off nonstop.

She'd just had her dressings changed and was still hooked to the tubes, the harsh light so bright she couldn't open her eyes.

A male reporter pushed a mic toward her mouth.

"Ms. Coleman, we've heard it was your own mistake that caused the fall. Is that true?"

A female reporter shoved to the front. "People are saying you were throwing your weight around on set, that you threw a fit when they tightened the harness. Any truth to that?"

Her lips shook, no words coming out.

She'd only just managed a couple of sips of porridge, and now she was curled up on the bed, like she wanted to hide herself into the wall.

I stood in front of her and told them to get out, but the flashes kept chasing her, catching every bit of how wretched she looked.

Someone knocked over the medicine cup on the nightstand, and water spilled across the bed.

Her legs couldn't move, and the cold liquid seeped slowly under the gauze. She drew herself in tighter, tears sliding down without a sound.

I shouted for a nurse to drive them all out, and when the door finally closed, my sister broke down crying.

The interview clip trended that same night.

The headline read: Sophie Coleman Breaks Silence on Fall Injury; Tearful Silence Sparks Controversy.

The caption said she'd dodged every question, that her attitude was evasive, that she looked guilty of something.

The comments blew up.

"She's the one who loosened her own harness and she still has the nerve to cry?"

"Back when she was stealing Freya's roles she was plenty arrogant. Who's the pity act for now?"

"Serves her right. Honestly. It's just karma."

"Freya even went to visit her. Look how big of a person she is. And this one?"

Someone dug up an old interview and clipped it out of context, splicing together a bit where she'd once given notes on a script, calling it "proof she's a diva."

The scrolling comments were all "get out of the industry" and "getting crippled is what she deserves."

I kept scrolling, and every line was uglier than the last.

Sophie couldn't take the online pressure, so she had a nurse help record a short reply. Just three sentences. She said the fall was an accident and asked people to stop spreading it.

The video was up for less than ten minutes before it vanished. The company scrubbed the comments clean, quick and efficient.

Freya, on the other hand, posted that same night, with a photo of herself from behind in a hospital corridor:

"Some things are better left in the past. Roles are never something you steal. Whether you act well or not, the audience knows in their hearts. Please stop the hate. It hurts my heart."

Underneath, her fans were all posting "our girl is so kind" and "her role got stolen and she's still defending the person."

Others piled on Sophie: "did wrong and still plays the victim," "can't accept being replaced so she stirs up trouble."

On the third day, a crowd gathered downstairs.

Some shouted her name. Some held up phones, live-streaming.

I pulled the curtains tight and pushed Sophie to the far corner of the room.

The door rattled under the pounding, and someone yelled, "Come out and explain yourself!"

I stood in front of Sophie's wheelchair and didn't move.

The door slammed open and a few people surged in.

A man rushed to the front and reached straight for the wheelchair handles.

"What do you think you're doing!"

I threw myself in to stop him.

"None of your business!"

He flung me against the wall, and my shoulder blade hit hard enough to burn.

Sophie wrenched the wheelchair around desperately to shield me. "Don't touch her!"

Before she finished, the man snatched the phone charger base off the table and brought it down.

A dull thud, and her head snapped to the side, and her whole body slid out of the chair.

By the time the ambulance came, her eyes were already shut, and the back of her head came away thick with blood when I touched it.

The operating room lights stayed on into the small hours before Bernard finally showed.

He leaned against the doorway of the room, coat still on. "What did I tell you? If your sister had listened to me sooner and settled this, it never would've gotten this bad."

"She just had to fight me. And now look. Chased down and beaten in her own home."

I crouched by the bed and ignored him.

He added, "It's just a signature. She had to turn it into this ugly mess. Take a good look at your sister. Feel good about it?"

Sophie lay on the bed, her head wrapped in gauze, eyes closed, saying nothing.

Bernard stood there a while, then seemed to decide there was no point.

"Fine. I'm leaving. Anything comes up, call my assistant."

His soles scraped against the corridor tiles, a grating sound that faded further and further away.

I was the one who brought her home from the hospital that day.

She sat in the wheelchair, the gauze on her head swapped for a smaller patch, tucked under her hair so you could barely see it.

When the nurse wheeled her out, she even smiled at me and said she could finally go home.

I knew she was pretending nothing had happened, so I wouldn't worry.

After she was discharged she woke early every day and had me push her out to the balcony to sit in the sun.

Sometimes while I cooked she'd scroll her phone beside me, now and then saying a word or two about the stray cat downstairs.

It looked almost like before. Except for her legs, everything seemed to be getting slowly better.

But one night I got up for water and saw her sitting alone in the dark, staring at her phone screen.

On it was a screenshot from that interview video, her curled into the pillow, the needle crooked in her arm, her whole face streaked with tears.

She was going through the comments one by one, slow, her thumb pausing again and again on the screen.

The next day she was smiling and talking to me again, as if none of it had happened.

She donated everything she'd saved over the years, split between two children's charities.

Someone dug up the transfer records and posted them online, and the comments were all abuse.

"Cripples herself and suddenly remembers to do good deeds?"

"Money buys a clean name? Didn't think about that when she was stealing roles."

"A stunt. Pure stunt."

My hands were shaking with anger when I came across it. She was sitting beside me and saw, and pulled the phone out of my hand, telling me to stop reading, to just let them be.

She said it calmly. So calmly it made my chest go tight with fear.

One morning she said she wanted the date pastry from that shop in the old south end of the city.

The shop had been open more than thirty years. Back when Mom and Dad were still around, they used to take us there all the time.

It had moved once since then, and it really was a bit far from where we lived now.

"I'll go buy some. You wait for me here."

I said.

"Is it far? Don't bother if it is."

"It's fine, just a few subway stops. If there's anything you need done that's hard to move around for, ask Mrs. Wang downstairs to help. I'll be back soon."

She nodded and said okay.

On my way out I looked back once. She was sitting in the wheelchair by the window, sunlight on her face, and she looked calm.

The whole trip took a little over an hour.

I pushed the door open, and the wheelchair wasn't where it had been.

Not in the living room, not in the bedroom, not on the balcony.

I called out for her twice. No answer.

Something inside me snapped.

I turned and ran up the stairs. There was a freight elevator around the corner, added to the old building later, one nobody ever used.

Its door stood open a crack. I squeezed in and pressed the top floor.

The wind was strong up on the roof.

She sat in the wheelchair, facing the city outside, its front wheels already pressed against the low wall at the edge.

She didn't turn when she heard me come up.

"Naomi." She used my nickname, her voice very soft. "Did you get the date pastry?"

I froze where I stood, and the tears came all at once.

"I got it, Sophie, come down, come down and eat!"

She let out a small laugh. "I won't. I donated money and got cursed for it. I cripple myself and they say I had it coming."

"I say one word to explain and the whole internet tells me to shut up."

"Naomi, I'm so tired."

"Sophie, don't move, wait for me to get to you!"

"Don't come over." She said. "One push forward is enough. Don't move. Let me go."

I ran toward her with everything I had, and she reached out and gave the wheel a push.

The wheelchair tipped forward, and her whole body went over the railing. I threw out my hand and caught only the corner of her jacket.

My palm closed on nothing.

A dull thud came from below.

I knelt at the edge of the roof, the date pastry falling from my hands and scattering across the ground.

The wind poured down my throat. I couldn't make a sound. I lay flat against the concrete.