The Flatline on the Final Stream

I was streaming myself drawing on Twitch when I suddenly coughed up blood. The scene unexpectedly shot me to the top of the platform's trending list.

My brother, Alec Hawthorne, burst into my room, ripped the power cord from the wall, and destroyed the digital art piece I was moments from finishing.

My fiancé, Brodie Beckett, posted in my stream's chat, announcing to everyone that I was just faking an illness for attention and views.

I was instantly vilified across the internet. Hateful comments flooded my feed, telling me to go die.

People photoshopped my pictures into mock funeral portraits. Someone even threw red paint on my front door.

What no one knew was that I had "accelerated familial cardiomyopathy," and I only had three days to live.

On the day I died, I started one last stream.

Tens of millions of viewers instantly flooded my channel, cursing me out for being a "deplorable fraud" and condemning me for faking an illness to get famous.

But what they saw next was my heart rate monitor flatlining.

Alec and Brodie panicked, racing to the hospital like madmen and begging me not to die.

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1

The blood was a sign, I knew, that my heart failure was getting worse. After all, ever since my diagnosis of "accelerated familial cardiomyopathy," my body had been breaking down day by day.

The donations quickly surpassed ten thousand dollars. My comments section flooded with messages of concern. Maybe... maybe there were people in this world who actually cared about me.

For a moment, I was happy. With donations this high, I could make it onto the platform's top streamer chart and win the prize money. Then, I could arrange a decent funeral for myself.

Just as I was about to speak, a sharp slap cracked across my face. I stumbled and fell, stars exploding behind my eyes. My brother, Alec Hawthorne, stood over me, glaring.

"She's just pretending to cough up blood to get more attention," Brodie Beckett's voice cut in.

I looked up at him, but his gaze was cold, unfeeling.

"That's right, don't believe her. Go watch Crystal's charity stream. She wouldn't lie to you for views."

How ridiculous. I'm literally coughing up blood, and they're still plugging Crystal's stream.

"I'm not faking it," I said with difficulty, enduring the searing pain in my heart.

But by then, the comments had already turned on me. The same viewers who had just been so concerned were now hurling insults.

"Oh my God, and I actually thought she was sick."

"She's so vain. Pretending to cough up blood just to get famous!"

"We shouldn't waste our time on people like this!"

"Let's go watch Crystal's stream instead!"

Within minutes, my viewership had plummeted by more than half. Then my stream was shut down, probably mass-reported for "inappropriate content."

I wouldn't be getting the prize money today. My dream of arranging a decent funeral for myself was shattered.

"Wipe that blood off your mouth. It's disgusting," Alec said, his expression one of pure revulsion.

Brodie didn't even bother to glance at me. In their eyes, the blood was just a prop.

"Crystal's mother is sick, Georgia," Brodie said coldly. "She needs this prize money more than you do, but you just had to go after her. So don't blame us for being ruthless."

To think this was the man I'd been with for five years. The same man who once pursued me relentlessly, promising to make me his wife. Now, here he was, defending my so-called best friend.

After they left, I coughed up another mouthful of blood. The crimson liquid splattered across the white carpet. I suddenly remembered what the cardiologist had told me two months ago.

"Don't you have any family?" Dr. Alistair Finch had asked.

"They don't want me anymore," I had replied with a bitter smile.

He seemed surprised. He wasn't the first person to react that way. Every time I said it, people thought I was joking.

After all, everyone knew the Hawthorne tech dynasty doted on their adopted daughter. How could they possibly not want me?

And though they'd never said the words, in my heart, I knew they had already disowned me. My so-called best friend, Crystal, had somehow turned my brother and my fiancé against me.

Later, she convinced them I'd nearly gotten her killed just for stream views. They all believed her and felt sorry for her.

Even my mother, Eleanor, started saying Crystal was more of a daughter to her than I ever was. Crystal was considerate and thoughtful, while I was useless.

Worse, they all blamed me for my adoptive father Arthur's death a few years ago. In their eyes, I was a murderer, and they wished I would just die. I once had Brodie, but now she'd taken him, too.

"You have 'accelerated familial cardiomyopathy.' You have two months, at most," Dr. Finch had said gravely.

I swallowed a strong painkiller to stay conscious. Just then, my mom sent me a text.

"Your father's death anniversary is coming up. I don't want to see your face for the next few days. Don't come home."

I couldn't help but laugh bitterly. Forever the sinner. They would probably be happy when I died.

Later, Crystal somehow found out about my illness. On my birthday, she came to my room with a malicious smile.

"You have 'accelerated familial cardiomyopathy,' don't you? Are you going to tell them? Just you wait. I'll make everyone hate you!"

Then, at dinner, she announced she'd seen me hire someone to forge a cardiologist's report, suggesting I might have "histrionic personality disorder." Then, she casually produced a physical exam report from the Mayo Clinic showing my body's vitals were perfect.

I tried to argue, insisting the report was fake and my illness was real. For a split second, I saw panic in their eyes. But then…

"Georgia, be realistic. Are you saying the Mayo Clinic is lying? Or is it you?"

Crystal put on a look of weary helplessness at my "lies." Then, I watched as my mom's and Alec's expressions shifted from panicked concern to rage.