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?
Jade’s switching from jealous sister to part-time doctor is quite the career change. Studying symptoms like she’s preparing for medical school instead of just regular old blackmail.
I blinked hard, trying to clear them, but they multiplied. Jade’s face blurred into an indistinct shape. Her voice sounded distant, like she was speaking from another room. She slapped my face lightly, trying to restore focus. The contact felt strange, disconnected from my body. She was losing her window. If I passed out before confessing, her leverage disappeared. She’d have to give me the insulin or risk me dying, which would ruin everything.
The next wave of nausea was violent. This time my stomach found something to expel. The bile burned my throat. Jade jumped back, cursing. She grabbed paper towels, throwing them at me in disgust. The smell made the nausea worse.
She announced a new plan. If I couldn’t speak or write, she’d accept a video of me nodding along as she told the story. Simple yes movements to her questions. She repositioned the phone and started recording again. But even nodding was becoming difficult. My neck muscles felt weak, unable to support my head properly. It lolled to one side. Jade grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at the camera. Her touch felt hot against my clammy skin.
The questions began. Did I help her fake diabetes? A weak nod. Did I teach her the symptoms? Another nod. But my movements were so small, so uncertain, that even Jade could see they wouldn’t convince anyone. She needed me more coherent.
She made a decision. Opening one vial, she drew up a tiny amount of insulin in a syringe. Not enough to save me, just enough to stabilize me temporarily. She’d give me small doses, keeping me functional but dependent. Control through chemistry. The needle approached my arm. I tried to pull away but lacked the strength.
A Knock at the Door
Then a sound made us both freeze. A car door slammed outside. Jade rushed to the window, peering through the blinds. Our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Bufort, was getting her morning paper. Jade watched until Mrs. Bufort went back inside. The interruption had rattled her. She hadn’t considered that others might notice something wrong. The neighborhood was usually quiet, but people were home for the holiday weekend.
She returned to find me slumped further down the cabinets. My breathing was more labored, each inhale a conscious effort. The insulin in her hand represented salvation, but she hesitated. Once she gave me any, she’d lose some control. Instead, she tried another tactic. She reminded me of all the times I’d gotten attention for my diabetes, every hospital visit, every concerned teacher, every special accommodation. She listed them like crimes, building her case for why she deserved to fake the same condition.
Her words faded in and out of my consciousness. I caught fragments about fairness, about being seen, about years of invisibility. But understanding required energy I didn’t have. My body was conserving resources for basic survival.
The doorbell rang. We both startled. Jade’s eyes went wide with panic; she hadn’t expected anyone. Through the kitchen window, I could see a delivery truck. The driver stood at our front door with a package, ringing again. Jade had to answer or risk suspicion. She quickly hid the insulin vials in her pocket and pointed the knife at me, a silent warning to stay quiet.
Then she composed herself and walked to the front door. I heard muffled conversation. The driver needed a signature. Jade’s voice sounded artificially cheerful, thanking him for working the holiday. The door closed. Her footsteps returned, quick and agitated. She found me trying to crawl toward the landline phone in the living room. I’d made it maybe 3 feet. My arms shook with the effort.
