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?

The grinding sound from earlier echoed in my memory. Thousands of dollars of life-saving medication destroyed in seconds. I thought about all the diabetics who rationed insulin because they couldn’t afford it, and here was my sister destroying it out of spite.

“You’re thinking too hard,” she said. “This isn’t a logic puzzle. It’s simple. Your life or your reputation. What matters more?”

Everything was starting to feel distant, like I was watching the scene from outside my body. That was a bad sign. Severe DKA could cause confusion, delirium, even hallucinations. I needed to act before I lost the ability to think clearly.

“One nod, Jay,” she pressed. “That’s all. Just move your head down and up, and this nightmare ends.”

But I knew it wouldn’t end. Even if I agreed, even if I told our parents the lie she wanted, Jade would hold this over me forever. Every time she wanted something, she’d threaten to tell the truth, or worse, she’d do this again. I’d spend my life at her mercy, never knowing when she might steal my insulin and watch me suffer.

“You’re running out of time,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes. They’re getting that glassy look. How long before you can’t even understand what I’m saying?”

The kitchen felt like it was spinning slowly. I tried to focus on her face, but it kept sliding in and out of clarity. My breathing was definitely faster now, my body trying desperately to blow off the excess acid building up in my blood.

“This is what you put Mom and Dad through every time you have a crisis,” Jade said. “This fear. This helplessness. Except they can’t fix it by just nodding. They have to watch you suffer and hope the insulin works in time.”

I wanted to explain that I never chose this, never wanted to scare them, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy. The words wouldn’t come out right. “Last chance,” she said, raising the vials. “Nod now or I flush the rest.”

I calculated my options while fighting the growing fog in my brain. The kitchen clock showed 8:47 a.m. My parents wouldn’t be back from Black Friday shopping until at least noon. 3 hours. My blood sugar was climbing past 400 now, judging by the symptoms. The metallic taste grew stronger with each swallow.

Jade noticed my glance at the clock and smiled wider. She moved the vials closer to the disposal, letting them clink against the metal rim. The sound made my stomach clench. Each vial represented days of life, and she held them like toys. My legs buckled slightly. I caught myself on the counter, but Jade saw the weakness. She leaned forward, studying my deteriorating condition with fascination. Her research had taught her well. She knew exactly what was happening inside my body.

The need for water became overwhelming. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried to moisten my lips, but there was no saliva left. Jade noticed this too. She walked to the cabinet, pulled out a glass, and filled it with cold water from the tap. She drank slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

I made a decision. Lunging wasn’t an option anymore; my reflexes were too slow, my muscles already weakening from dehydration. But I could still think, at least for now. I nodded once, just enough for her to see.

Jade’s eyes lit up with triumph. She set down the water glass and picked up one vial, examining it like a prize. Then she shook her head and laughed. The vial went back with the others.

She explained that a nod wasn’t enough. She wanted to hear me practice the story first. Every detail had to be perfect: how I supposedly taught her to fake symptoms, how we planned it together, how I helped her research diabetes to make her performance convincing. She wanted me to rehearse until it sounded natural.

My vision swam. The kitchen tiles beneath my feet seemed to ripple. I gripped the counter harder, fingernails digging into the laminate. The effort of standing was becoming monumental. My body was eating itself, breaking down muscle and fat for energy it couldn’t use.

Jade pulled out her phone and started recording. She wanted video evidence of my confession, proof that I was coherent and speaking voluntarily. She positioned the phone on the counter, adjusting the angle to capture both of us. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a croak emerged. My throat was too dry. Jade sighed dramatically and slid the water glass across the counter. I grabbed it desperately, gulping down the entire contents. The relief was momentary; within seconds, the thirst returned worse than before.

She demanded I start talking. I began stammering through her fictional narrative, but my words slurred together. The brain fog was thickening; simple sentences became complex puzzles. Jade grew frustrated with my performance. She made me start over twice, each time threatening the insulin.

When I stumbled, the nausea hit suddenly. I doubled over, dry heaving into the sink. Nothing came up but bile; my stomach had been empty since dinner the night before. Jade stepped back in disgust but kept filming. She narrated my symptoms to the camera, documenting my decline like a science experiment.

When the heaving stopped, I slumped against the counter. My legs shook uncontrollably, not the practiced tremor of hypoglycemia but the weakness of a body shutting down. I slid to the floor, back against the cabinets. The cool tiles felt good against my feverish skin. Jade crouched down to my level, keeping the insulin vials visible. She reminded me that we weren’t done. The confession needed to be complete and convincing.

But forming coherent thoughts was becoming impossible. Words floated away before I could grasp them. She grew impatient with my deteriorating speech. Standing up, she paced the kitchen, muttering about timing. She needed me functional enough to confess but sick enough to be grateful. The window was narrowing. She checked her phone, calculating when our parents might return.

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. The room spun violently. I closed my eyes, but that made the nausea worse. My breathing had become rapid and shallow, my body trying to expel the building acid through my lungs. Each breath felt insufficient. Jade noticed my breathing pattern and nodded knowingly. She’d studied this too.

“Kussmaul respirations,” she announced proudly. “Deep, labored breathing. That meant the acid levels were becoming critical.”

She estimated I had maybe an hour before consciousness became questionable. The confession attempt resumed. She coached me through the words, but my responses were increasingly incoherent. Frustration flashed across her face. Her perfect plan required my cooperation, but my body was failing faster than she’d anticipated.

She decided on a new approach. Grabbing a notepad from the drawer, she wrote out the confession herself. All I had to do was copy it in my own handwriting. She thrust the pen at me, but my hands shook too badly to grip it properly. The pen clattered to the floor. My vision tunneled. Dark spots danced at the edges.