My Sister Faked Diabetes For Attention. When She Was Exposed, She Destroyed My Life-saving Insulin While I Begged For Help. Am I Wrong For Wanting Her To Rot In Prison?

Racing Against the Clock

I glanced at the kitchen window. It was small, but maybe I could fit through. Jade must have seen my eyes move because she grabbed a kitchen knife from the block. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not going to stab you or anything dramatic, but I will use this to puncture every single vial if you try to leave this room.”

The nausea was getting stronger. My body was already switching to breaking down fat for energy, producing ketones that would eventually poison my blood. I could taste the metallic flavor starting in my mouth.

“You know what the funny part is?” Jade continued, setting the knife within easy reach. “I actually learned so much about diabetes from watching you. I know exactly what’s happening to your body right now. Your cells are starving because they can’t use the glucose in your blood without insulin. Your liver is dumping more sugar trying to give you energy, but it’s just making things worse.”

She was right. My blood sugar was probably approaching 300 by now. The thirst was becoming unbearable. I needed water, but I couldn’t move without risking the rest of my insulin.

“In about an hour you’ll start vomiting,” she said conversationally. “Then comes the confusion, the weakness. Your breathing will get rapid and shallow as your body tries to compensate for the acid building up. I’ve seen you in DKA before. Remember when I threw away your insulin before the trip?”

The memory made me angry enough to focus through the growing brain fog. That nearly killed me. But it didn’t. Mom and Dad rushed you to the hospital, held your hand, stayed by your bedside for days. Where was I sent? To stay with Aunt Carol like I was the problem.

She gripped the vials tighter this time. “They’ll have to choose their precious sick child or their healthy one who just wanted to be seen.”

I pressed my palms against the counter, trying to steady myself. The room was starting to feel too warm. My skin was getting that dry, flushed feeling that came with high blood sugar. “What happens when I’m in a coma?” I asked. “When they find me unconscious on this floor? You think they’ll believe I coached you after you’ve literally murdered me?”

“You’re being dramatic. You won’t die. You’ll just get sick enough that when I find you and save you with this insulin, you’ll be grateful enough to say whatever I want.” She smiled. “I’ve thought this through. I’ll be the hero who found her poor diabetic sibling in crisis and saved the day. Finally, I’ll be the one taking care of you instead of the other way around.”

My vision was starting to blur slightly, not enough to be dangerous yet, but enough to know I was running out of time. I needed those vials, but Jade had positioned herself perfectly. The disposal was right behind her, the knife within reach, and she was watching my every move.

“You want some water?” she asked mockingly. “Your mouth must be so dry by now. That’s what, 350? Now, how high does your meter even read?”

I didn’t answer. I was trying to remember if there was any insulin anywhere else in the house. Sometimes I left old pens in jacket pockets, but Jade had been thorough. She must have searched everywhere while I was sleeping.

“You know what I hated most?” Jade continued. “The way everyone always asked about you first. How’s your sister doing?”

There’s something deeply unsettling about watching Jade study her sister’s medical condition like she’s preparing for a theater role. The way she memorized those specific tremors and speech patterns—that level of dedication to deception makes me wonder what else is going on in her mind beyond simple jealousy.

“Is her blood sugar okay? Does she need anything? Like I didn’t exist unless it was in relation to your disease.”

The room tilted slightly. I gripped the counter harder. “And the special meals, the counting carbs, the constant checking. Everything revolved around keeping you alive while I just had to be grateful I was healthy.”

She laughed bitterly. “Do you know how invisible that makes you feel? To watch your parents panic over every number on your meter while your straight A’s meant nothing?”

I wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but my energy was fading. The ketones were building up faster now. My breathing was getting heavier.

“That’s why I had to do it,” she said. “I had to show them what it felt like to worry about me for once. To rush me to appointments, to check on me in the night, to put my needs first.”

“But it was all fake,” I managed to say. “So what? The attention was real. The concern was real. For once, I mattered as much as you.”

She held up the vials again. “And now I’m going to matter more. Because when you tell them you helped me, they’ll realize you’re not the perfect sick child they thought you were. You’re just as capable of manipulation as anyone else.”

My legs were getting shaky. I needed to sit down, but I couldn’t show weakness, not yet. “The thing is,” Jade continued, “I actually got pretty good at faking lows. The shaking, the confusion, the way your eyes go unfocused. I practiced in the mirror for hours. But you know what? I could never fake this.” She gestured at me. “The way your skin gets that weird dry flush. The fruity smell on your breath. The way you keep swallowing because your mouth is so dry. That’s real diabetes. That’s what’s going to kill you if you don’t agree to my terms.”

I could feel my heart racing, trying to pump the thickening blood through my system. The insulin in her hand was my only chance, but I couldn’t give her what she wanted. If I told our parents I’d helped her fake diabetes, they’d never trust me again. Every real symptom I had would be questioned. Every emergency would be doubted.

“Tick tock,” Jade said. “How high can you go? 500? 600? I’ve seen your meter error out at 600 before. Remember? You were so sick you couldn’t even stand up.”

The memory made me sway. That had been one of the worst days of my life, and now I was heading there again. But this time, the insulin was right in front of me, held hostage by my own sister. “You’re sweating,” she observed. “That’s new. Usually, you get all dry and flushed. Must be the adrenaline mixing with the high blood sugar. Your body doesn’t know whether to panic or shut down.”

She was right. I was caught between the fight-or-flight response and the growing lethargy of DKA. My muscles felt weak but tense, ready to spring if I saw an opening.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Jade said. “Just nod. Just nod yes, and I’ll hand over one vial. Enough to get you through until you can properly agree to my terms. Otherwise…” She moved her hand toward the disposal again.