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?

I nodded, lying that it was fine, but my hand moved to my pocket where I always kept my glucose meter. The gesture was subtle but deliberate: empty pocket, no meter. Mrs. Bufort’s face changed. She understood. She announced loudly that she’d get the tea and call my parents to let them know I wasn’t feeling well. Jade protested, but Mrs. Bufort was already walking away, moving faster than her 70 years should allow. She knew something was terribly wrong.

The Final Standoff

Jade slammed the door. Rage replaced her earlier calculation. Everything was falling apart. She had minutes before Mrs. Bufort either called 911 or our parents, maybe both. The game was over. She dragged me back to the kitchen, shoving me against the counter. The last vial came out of her pocket. She held it over the disposal one final time. If she was going down, she’d take me with her. Mutual destruction rather than defeat.

But the insulin was working more now. My mind was clearing enough to think tactically. I reminded her that destroying the last vial meant she’d have to explain my death. No story would cover that. She’d go to prison—real prison, not just family consequences. She hesitated. I pressed on, words coming easier now. If she gave me the insulin, I’d tell everyone I’d accidentally destroyed my supply, a stupid mistake while half asleep. She could confirm the story, be the hero who helped me through the crisis. Our parents would forgive her previous lies in light of her help.

The offer hung between us. Jade calculated rapidly. She could hear Mrs. Bufort’s voice outside, probably on her phone already. Time was running out. Either she committed to destroying me completely or salvaged what she could.

Sirens in the distance, faint but growing louder. Mrs. Bufort hadn’t waited. Help was coming. Jade’s window for deciding was closing with each second. She looked at the vial, then at me, then at the door. She made her choice.

The vial flew across the room, smashing against the wall. Glass shards and precious insulin splattered across the floor. The last of my salvation destroyed in a moment of spite. Jade smiled coldly. If she couldn’t win, neither of us would.

But I smiled back. Because during our struggle, while she’d been distracted by Mrs. Bufort, I’d done something she hadn’t noticed. The syringe she’d used earlier, the one with a partial dose, had rolled under the counter. I’d grabbed it while she dragged me to the door. There was still insulin in it—not much, maybe two units, but enough to keep me alive until help arrived. I’d hidden it in my waistband waiting.

Now, as sirens grew louder, I pulled it out and injected the remaining dose. Jade’s face went white. She hadn’t destroyed everything after all. Her final act of cruelty had failed. She ran for the back door, but it was too late. Red and blue lights were already flashing through the windows. Mrs. Bufort had given them our address.

Paramedics burst through the front door, Mrs. Bufort right behind them with her spare key. They found me on the kitchen floor, conscious but weak, surrounded by broken glass and destroyed medical supplies. Jade stood frozen by the back door, caught between fleeing and facing consequences.

The Aftermath

The next minutes blurred together. Paramedics checking vitals, starting IV lines, administering emergency dextrose. Police officers arriving, taking in the scene. Mrs. Bufort explaining what she’d witnessed. Jade trying to spin stories that fell apart under basic questioning. My blood sugar stabilized slowly. The immediate danger passed, though I’d need hospital monitoring.

As they loaded me onto a gurney, I heard Jade telling officers I’d destroyed my own insulin during an argument. But the evidence told a different story. The knife she’d threatened me with still lay on the counter. The video she’d recorded on her phone showed my deteriorating condition and her demands. The destruction in the kitchen, the glass shards with insulin residue, all painted a clear picture of what had transpired.

Our parents arrived as the ambulance prepared to leave. Mom’s face went from confusion to horror as officers explained what they’d found. Dad stood silent, processing how badly they’d misread the situation. They’d enabled Jade’s jealousy until it nearly killed me.

The hospital room smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. I watched the IV drip steadily into my arm, each drop carrying the insulin my body desperately needed. The paramedics had stabilized me in the ambulance, but the doctors wanted to monitor me for at least 24 hours. My blood sugar readings showed the violent swings from the past few hours, evidence of how close I’d come to diabetic coma.

Mom sat in the chair beside my bed, her face puffy from crying. She’d been apologizing non-stop since arriving at the hospital, but I was too exhausted to respond. Dad paced by the window, occasionally stopping to stare at the parking lot below. Neither of them had mentioned Jade’s name since the police took her away.

A nurse came in to check my vitals. She adjusted the insulin drip based on my latest glucose reading, then left us in silence again. The steady beeping of monitors filled the void where conversation should have been. My throat still felt raw from the vomiting, and every muscle ached from the severe dehydration.

Mrs. Bufort appeared in the doorway holding a small potted plant. She’d changed out of her morning robe into proper clothes, but her face still showed the strain of the morning’s events. Mom stood to hug her, fresh tears starting. They spoke in hushed tones near the door while I pretended to sleep.

The detective arrived an hour later. He was younger than I expected, with kind eyes and a gentle manner. He pulled up a chair and asked if I felt well enough to give a statement. Mom started to protest, but I nodded. The story needed to be told while the details were fresh. I walked him through everything, from discovering my empty insulin pump to Jade’s final destructive act. He took notes carefully, occasionally asking for clarification. When I mentioned the video Jade had recorded on her phone, he made a special note that evidence would be crucial.

The detective explained what would happen next. Jade was being held on charges of reckless endangerment and destruction of property. The value of the destroyed insulin alone made it a felony. Combined with the deliberate withholding of life-saving medication, she faced serious consequences. He asked if I wanted to press charges. I looked at my parents, saw their devastated faces, and nodded again.