The Canary Who Learned To Fly

I died on a Tuesday.

It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father.

I was twenty years old.

He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard.