Too Late to Believe Me

Because I was such a master of slacking off, my parents sent me to a reality show that was supposed to turn me into a perfect child.

On the show, it took me half an hour just to stand up with both hands on the bed rail. I liked dragging my legs when I walked, and I could take an entire day to finish one meal.

To make sure I went through the makeover smoothly, they threw away my cane and hid my medicine.

The production team locked me in a reflection pod and forced me to write a confession letter in front of the camera.

I held the pen and begged myself in my heart: I have to write this well. As long as I do, Mom and Dad will take me home.

They promised they would take me for a followup visit when I got back this time. But my hand kept shaking, and the saliva in my throat surged up and blocked my airway.

I lay on the floor, banging my forehead against the door again and again, trying to get help. But my dad just sneered, “You’re an adult now.

Why are you still using this excuse to be lazy?” My mom also showed an ugly look. “Stop pretending. Isn’t this just your way of slacking off?

Why are you acting so disgusting?” I lay on the floor, banging my forehead against the door again and again, trying to get help. Dad. Mom. I really wasn’t being lazy.

I was sick. “Zoe, how long do you plan to keep pretending?” My dad’s angry voice came from the control room. I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t get out a single complete sentence.

I knelt trembling in front of the table, my right hand seeming frozen solid, unable to move.

My fingertips felt as if they had been twisted into a strange shape, and the confession letter I had written for my parents slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

I tried to grab it, but all I could do was watch the paper land on the ground. There were only a few crooked words on it, barely recognizable: I’m not...

I could never finish the word “lazy” after that. “I’ve seen too many people like this who are too lazy to write, so they start pretending their hands don’t work.

They need to be punished.” In the control room, the producer, Megan, was practically smug. “Move camera one closer so everyone can see what she looks like when she refuses to admit fault and keeps pretending to be sick.” Tears streamed down my face as I tried to explain.

I wanted to tell them I wasn’t faking it, that I really couldn’t hold the pen. But all that came out of my mouth was a broken, breathless sound. “Dad...

I... help...” Outside the video frame, my mom, Sandra, frowned in disgust. “She’s at it again. The second we ask her to do anything, she starts acting up, saying she can’t breathe.

Isn’t this obviously just her pretending to be sick? Don’t let her fool you!” My dad, David, also stood up in anger. “You’re an adult and still this lazy?

Who are you trying to fool by not saying anything now? You sure had plenty of energy when you were stressing us out at home. Go outside and say you’re my kid?

That’s embarrassing.” I wanted to explain that it wasn’t like that. I had tried. But I just couldn’t do it right. And nobody cared what I thought. The livestream was still on.

A row of bullet comments scrolled past the side of the screen. [This slow, dragging act is making me furious.] [She came here for a makeover and still keeps pretending to be sick.

The way her hand shakes is disgusting.] [Her family has such good tempers. If it were me, I’d have slapped her already.] [Don’t go soft on her, production.

Stay strong.] I lay on the floor and felt my breathing get harder and harder. I wanted to call for help, but when I opened my mouth, I could only make a few weak sounds.

When I lifted my head, I saw the slogan the production team had printed in advance on the wall: Laziness isn’t an illness. Refusing to change is deadly.

Then I suddenly remembered that before I went into the reflection pod, someone told me there was a help button on the wall. “If you really can’t hold on, just press it.” I used all my strength to reach out and press it.

But no matter how many times I pressed, the red light never came on.

Only later did I find out that to make the “sealed reflection” feel more real, Megan had someone cut the call line inside long before.

So I had no choice but to crawl toward the door. The saliva in my mouth kept building up. I couldn’t swallow it, and I couldn’t cough it out.

I could feel it slowly running into my airway. My chest felt like it was being clenched by a hand. I hit the door with my forehead. Once. Twice.

Outside the door, a crew member named Dylan stopped walking. Through the door, he asked, “Zoe?

Are you okay?” I opened my mouth and tried desperately to breathe in. “Help... help me...” But the sound that came out was broken.

Dylan clearly panicked and took out his walkietalkie. “Director Megan, she doesn’t look right.

Should we open the door and check on her first?” The control room fell silent for two seconds. Then Megan laughed. “Don’t let her set the pace.

Wasn’t she lying on the floor two days ago saying her legs wouldn’t move?

In the end, didn’t her dad just drag her up?” My dad snorted in the control room. “She’s just asking for a beating.

When she was little, if I hit her twice, she’d run faster than a rabbit.

Now that she’s grown up, she knows we won’t dare beat her to death, so she’s acting even more convincingly.” My mom added: “Let her stay on the floor. The ground is cold.

Once she’s cold enough, she’ll know to get up.” Dylan still wanted to argue. “But this time she really...” Megan cut him off. “Do you know how many people are in the livestream room right now?

Ninepointtwo million.” “The viewers want to see her finally break down and admit she was wrong.

If you open that door now, who’s going to stay and watch our livestream?” “Anyone who dares open that door now can pack their things and get out.” Dylan didn’t dare say another word.

Footsteps outside drifted away. I lay by the door and suddenly heard a terrifying wheezing sound from my own chest. It sounded like a broken bellows.

I thought of three months ago, when Dr. Grant looked at my test results with a grave expression and said to me: “Zoe, you can’t keep delaying this.

Your swallowing and breathing are already being affected. It’s best not to leave you alone.

If you start choking or can’t breathe, you need to go to the ER immediately.” That day, I carefully put my medical report into my bag.

When I got home, my mom only glanced at the bill before tossing the file onto the table. “One exam costs more than a thousand dollars.

Of course the doctor’s going to make it sound serious.

If he doesn’t scare you, how’s he supposed to make money?” My dad was even more direct. “Don’t try to scare us with some illness.

I think you’re just too lazy to work and want us to support you for the rest of your life.” In the final moment before I suffocated, my body suddenly became very light.

I floated up from the ground. When I looked down, I saw myself curled up beside the reflection pod door, my face pale and bluish, saliva all over my mouth and chin.

My hand was still reaching through the crack in the door, as if I were trying to grab the person outside. But there was no one outside.

In the control room, my dad was pointing at the monitor and shouting: “Look at her. She even knows how to make the posture look this miserable.

Just so she won’t write the confession letter, she’s even putting on a death act.” My mom turned her face away in disgust. “So disgusting. Don’t give her a closeup.

She makes me sick.” I stood behind them and finally understood. So even after you die, you still might not get a single word of belief.

Ten minutes after I died, the livestream passed ten million viewers. The bullet comments scrolled by at lightning speed. [This girl is way too good at acting.

The Oscars owe her a trophy.] [Her parents are so pitiful, raising a giant baby like this.] [Suggestion: lock her in there for twentyfour hours and see if she still keeps pretending.] There were also people quietly questioning: [Are her lips purple?] [This doesn’t look fake.

She’s not moving.] [Should the production team check whether she’s still breathing?] As soon as these comments appeared, they were quickly deleted.

Megan sat in front of the control desk with a coffee in hand, sounding excited. “Did we buy the trending topic?

Make the tag ‘Freeloading Girl Throws a Tantrum in the Reflection Pod.’” The assistant director hesitated a little. “Director Megan, she hasn’t moved in seven or eight minutes inside the pod.” “It’s an act.” Megan gave him an impatient glance. “The lazy guy before her was locked up for two hours, crying so hard he had snot and tears everywhere, and in the end he knelt down to his mom and admitted fault.

That clip got thirty million views. Zoe here is even more controversial. She pretends to be sick, plays the victim, and she’s skinny too.

Viewers love hating girls like that.” I stood in the corner of the control room and watched them turn my pain into a selling point.

On the first day of filming, the production team confiscated my things. My cane was labeled a “laziness prop” and thrown into a clear box.

Megan looked into the camera and said: “Zoe has been using her cane for a long time, reinforcing the idea that she’s disabled.

Today, we’ll start by helping her break free from that psychological dependence.” I leaned against the wall and said, “I can’t walk steadily.” She immediately smiled and jumped in: “Many avoidant personalities create a sick identity for themselves.

Today, our first step is to remove her psychological cane.” When they took away my pillbox, I panicked and tried to snatch it back.

My dad grabbed my wrist hard enough to make my bones hurt. “Still trying to grab it?

You think a few bottles of pills are enough to fool the whole country?” He yanked hard, and I fell straight to the floor. My knee turned blue and purple from the impact.

My mom didn’t help me up. She crouched down and whispered in my ear, cursing me: “Your body is fine.

It’s all in your head.” On the second day of filming, the production team arranged a “threekilometer awakening walk.” They made me walk the loop road outside the base under the blazing sun without any assistive devices.

I had barely gone two hundred meters before my left foot started dragging on the ground and wouldn’t lift.

Panting, I said, “I really can’t keep going.” My dad rushed over from the finish tent and dragged me forward by the arm. “Walk!

You’re going to walk!” My toes scraped against the ground, and I even lost one shoe. I said, “Dad, it hurts...” He raised a hand and slapped the back of my head. “What hurts?

Your mom hurt giving birth to you! This little bit of hardship is nothing!” The livestream bullet comments were full of praise. [That felt good.

She needed to be taught a lesson.] [I can’t believe it. She can’t even walk three kilometers?

My ninetyyearold grandma moves better than her.] [Is she deliberately dragging her foot?

The acting is way too over the top.] On the third day, the production team gave me ten minutes to finish a lunchbox. The rice was dry, and the chicken breast was tough.

That day, my hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the spoon. The moment I scooped up a bite of rice, the spoon started shaking in the air.

Rice grains fell all over the table, my pants, and the front of my shirt. The more anxious I got, the worse my hand shook.

Half a spoonful spilled onto my chest, and the soup ran down my clothes. The camera immediately zoomed in.

My mom’s face changed on the spot. “Zoe!” She rushed over and snatched the spoon out of my hand. “You can’t even eat a meal properly. Are you a pig? The audience is watching.

Do you have to disgrace our family completely?” I tried to say, “Mom, my hand...” Slap. When the slap landed, my ears rang. She hit me hard.

My face turned to the side, and my teeth cut my lip. The taste of blood mixed with saliva surged up.

The bullet comments exploded instantly. [That was satisfying!] [People like her deserve to be hit. You can’t wake her up without it.] [Her pathetic act failed lol.

She even spilled food all over herself. Total giant baby.] My dad stood nearby, his face dark with anger. “Don’t spoil her.

Let her eat off the floor herself.” My mom shoved me to the ground and pressed my head down. “Eat!

If you don’t finish it today, don’t even think about sleeping.” As she spoke, she shoved the food on the floor into my mouth. “Let everyone see what a person looks like when they’re so lazy they need to be fed even when they eat.”

Finally, after suffering through to the evening of the sixth day, Megan handed me the final task card. She made me look into the camera and admit: “I’m not sick. I’m just lazy.

Starting today, I won’t freeload off my parents anymore.” I looked at the teleprompter text and couldn’t read it out no matter what. It wasn’t because I was stubborn.

It was because I really had no strength left. My tongue was getting stiffer and stiffer, and my words were becoming slurred.

After seven takes, Megan slammed the headphones onto the table. “Fine.

If she still refuses to admit it, put her in the reflection pod.” The door to the reflection pod opened twentyeight minutes after I died. Not because they realized I was dead.

But because Megan thought the timing was right for the climax shot of the “lazy bum bowing her head.” Cameras, boom mics, and fill lights all rushed to the door.

My dad stood in front, wearing a longsuppressed look of victory. “Zoe, get out here!

Kneel now and say you were wrong, and I’ll still accept you as my daughter.” The moment the door opened, there was no crying inside. No admission of fault either.

Only a thick, damp, unpleasant smell rushed out. My body was lying on the floor, my head tilted to one side, saliva all over my chin and collar.

The tips of my right fingers were still stuck in the crack of the door, the nails lifted, blood already dried. Dylan was the first to change expression.

He threw down the walkietalkie and rushed over to feel my neck. “Director Megan! Call an ambulance! She has no response!” My dad frowned. “Why call an ambulance?

She must have heard me tell her to kneel, so she’s pretending to be dead instead.” Dylan shouted so hard his voice cracked. “She’s not breathing!” My mom still didn’t believe it. “No way.

She was just banging on the door. She’s just tired. She’s always like this. She’ll be fine after lying down for a while.” “Zoe, everyone’s watching. You still refuse to admit fault.

Get up now and stop embarrassing yourself!” My dad used the tip of his shoe to poke my calf. “That’s enough. It’s just a show.

Do you really have to act like this?” But my body gave no response at all. Dylan knelt on the ground and started CPR on me.

While pressing on my chest, he shouted: “She’s got a mouthful of secretions. We need to clear her airway! Is there a firstaid kit?

Is there a ventilator?” The people from the production team looked at each other. There wasn’t.

Their base had five highdefinition cameras, three livestream setups, and dozens of lights. But they couldn’t even find a proper firstaid kit.

Half an hour later, I was taken to the hospital. Outside the emergency room, the red light was glaring. My dad sat on a bench, both hands on his knees.

My mom was still cursing under her breath: “She was just trying to scare us, to get revenge on us!” Before she could finish, the emergency room door opened. Dr.

Grant came out and took off his mask. “Who is Zoe’s family?” My mom jumped to her feet. “I’m her mother. Doctor, is she still pretending in there?

I’m going in right now and dragging her up. She’s embarrassed us enough already. If she’s still pretending, then I’ll just pretend I never had a daughter!” Dr.

Grant was silent for a few seconds. “The patient had already lost spontaneous breathing and heartbeat when she arrived.

We did emergency treatment, but unfortunately, we couldn’t save her.” “Zoe is dead.”

When those four words fell, my dad suddenly stood up. “Did you make a mistake? She’s only twentysix. How could she die from drooling?” Dr.

Grant’s face instantly darkened. “It wasn’t drooling that killed her.” He said each word clearly. “She had obvious signs of swallowing difficulty and respiratory muscle weakness.

After saliva and stomach contents were aspirated, she couldn’t cough them out effectively, which led to suffocation.

In plain terms, you locked a person who couldn’t even cough to save herself into a small room with no emergency call device.” The hallway fell dead silent. Dr.

Grant turned to look at Megan in the corner, his gaze as cold as a blade. “Who approved the sealed confinement? Who took away her medicine and assistive devices?

Who stopped the door from being opened after she showed blue lips and trouble breathing?” A little color drained from Megan’s face.

She still tried to keep up appearances. “Doctor, we didn’t know she had such a serious illness. She and her family never told us honestly...” “Didn’t tell you?” Dr.

Grant gave a cold laugh. “She had tests done at our hospital three months ago, and I personally wrote the followup recommendation.

The chart clearly states: suspected motor neuron disease, difficulty swallowing, family accompaniment required, avoid being alone, seek medical care immediately if breathing becomes uncomfortable.” My mom suddenly looked up. “Medical chart?” It was as if she had just remembered something, and her voice got softer and softer. “She showed me... but...” But she didn’t believe it.

That chart had been stuffed by her into a kitchen drawer, under a pile of takeout coupons. The hospital morgue was cold. I lay on the gurney under a white sheet.

My dad didn’t dare come close. He stood at the door like all the strength had been pulled out of his body.

My mom suddenly rushed over and ripped off the sheet. “Zoe, don’t sleep.” Her voice was shaking so badly it could barely hold together. “Mom won’t let you film anymore.

We’ll go home. I’ll make you some porridge. Didn’t you say porridge was easy to swallow? I’ll make it really, really soft, okay?” My eyes were closed.

They would never open again because of one of her words.

She reached out and touched my face, and the moment her fingers hit my skin, she froze as if all the blood had stopped moving. “Why is it so cold...” she murmured. “Aren’t you the one who hates being cold the most?

Get up. It’s so cold in here. What if you catch a chill?” At that moment, Dr.

Grant came over and handed her my personal belongings bag. “This was found in your clothes during resuscitation.” Inside the clear bag were a few things. A wrinkled saliva towel.

Half a copy of a medical report soaked with sweat. A resignation letter. And a small voice recorder the production team hadn’t noticed during filming.

I bought that recorder after I quit my job.

Because my fingers were getting less and less cooperative, and I kept making mistakes when typing, I could only use voice memos to record the changes in my body.

My mom pressed play with trembling hands. My slurred, strained voice rang out from inside. “May 3. Brushed my teeth in the morning. Couldn’t hold the toothbrush in my right hand.

Dropped it four times.” “May 17. Choked while drinking water. Coughed for a long time. Chest hurts.” “June 2. Mom said my drooling was disgusting. I didn’t do it on purpose.

I just can’t swallow.” “June 20. The company asked me to resign.

My manager said my drawing speed was too slow, my hands were shaking too much, and they were worried I’d cause a safety accident. I actually didn’t want to leave.

I really loved that job.” In the recording, I paused for a long time.

Then I said softly: “I just wish Mom and Dad could go to one followup visit with me.” “I’m not unwilling to work.” “I don’t want to become like this either.” My mom held the recorder and swayed like she was about to fall.

My dad snatched the resignation letter away. It was written very clearly.

Due to the employee’s worsening physical condition and inability to complete job duties, the employment relationship is terminated by mutual agreement.

It wasn’t that I refused to work. It was that I could no longer work. My dad stared at those words, his eyes slowly turning red.

Then he suddenly slapped himself hard across the face.

The crack of it rang out especially loudly in the morgue. “I yelled at her that day.” His voice was hoarse. “She held this paper and tried to explain to me, and I said she was playing the victim.

I told her nobody would ever hire someone like her.” My mom started frantically searching through the bag like a madwoman. “What else? What else did she leave?

She must have left me a message too.” Dr.

Grant looked at her, his voice icy. “She said a lot while she was alive, but you didn’t listen.” That sentence made her go silent instantly.

She knelt beside the gurney, pressed her forehead against the cold metal frame, and let out a beastlike sob from her throat. “Zoe, Mom didn’t know...

Mom really didn’t know it was this serious...” But I floated nearby, very calmly thinking: You didn’t not know. You just chose not to believe it every single time.