My sister held my insulin over the sink and said, “If I can’t have diabetes, then neither can you.” When I begged her to stop, she laughed and said, “You’re sweating already. What’s that—400? How long till your organs shut down?” I didn’t say a word. That was nine days ago. This morning, she was crying in court while they read the charges out loud. What’s the worst thing your sister ever did to you?

My sister pretended to have diabetes because she was jealous of the attention mine got me from our parents. Jade was five years older than me and treated my type 1 diabetes like a personal insult. She’d hide my glucose meter before meals, steal my juice boxes meant for lows, and tell our parents I was using my condition for attention. When I was ten, she threw away my insulin before a family trip and I ended up in the ICU. She told everyone at school I was faking symptoms for special treatment.

My parents told me to be patient with her—that she was just jealous of the medical attention. They had no idea how dangerous her jealousy would become.

When Jade was eighteen, she announced at dinner that she’d been feeling dizzy and shaky between meals. She pulled out one of my glucose meters and went through the history, claiming that some of the “wonky” blood sugars were actually hers from when she “borrowed” it. Our mother immediately made her an endocrinologist appointment while Jade started telling all her friends that she was probably about to get diagnosed with diabetes.

The blood tests showed perfect levels, but Jade insisted they’d missed her reactive hypoglycemia. Within a week, she was demanding the same meal schedule and accommodations I had, timing her fake symptoms to match my real insulin schedule. Every week brought new dramatic lows for Jade. Never mind that in order to get dangerously low blood sugars, you have to be injecting insulin— which Jade wasn’t. No logic here. She’d collapse in stores, shake uncontrollably, and demand juice while people panicked. She studied my real symptoms and perfected them: the specific way my hands trembled, the confusion that came with low blood sugar, even the particular way my speech slurred when my glucose dropped too fast.

She’d time her fake episodes for maximum attention, once staging a severe crash during my birthday party, convulsing on the floor until someone gave her cake. The paramedics who came found normal blood sugar, but she claimed their meter was broken. Our parents spent thousands on specialists who found nothing wrong. Jade joined diabetes support groups where she spread misinformation to actual diabetics, then decided that the reason she was having low blood sugars without injecting insulin was because of “proximity exposure” to my insulin.

So she demanded separate refrigerators. She’d wake our parents at 3:00 a.m. claiming dangerous lows, forcing them to make her food— while I handled my real overnight blood sugar issues alone, because I’m not an infant.

The truth finally came out at Thanksgiving. Jade was performing her usual dramatic low when our cousin, who was visiting from out of state, mentioned seeing her eat a huge candy stash in her room an hour earlier. Jade froze mid‑shake. Our aunt, who was a nurse, grabbed Jade’s glucose meter and tested her right there. Her blood sugar was 95— perfectly normal. The shaking stopped immediately as everyone stared at her. She tried to claim the candy was treatment for an earlier low, but our aunt tested her again ten minutes later. Still 95. No diabetic’s blood sugar stays that stable after eating candy.

Our parents went through her room that night and found her diary where she admitted to everything. She’d been faking for over a year, researching every aspect of diabetes to make her performance convincing. They told her she had thirty days to find somewhere else to live. She screamed that they were choosing their “defective” child over their “healthy” one. But for once, they didn’t cave to her manipulation.

But Jade wasn’t done.

The next morning, I woke up to find my insulin pump beeping “empty,” which was impossible since I’d just changed it the night before. All my backup insulin pens were gone from the fridge. My emergency glucagon was missing. Even my hidden supply in my bedroom was gone.

Jade stood in the kitchen holding my entire supply of life‑saving medication over the sink. “If I can’t have diabetes,” she said calmly, “then neither can you.”

She’d already flushed half of it— thousands of dollars of insulin gone in seconds. The rest she held over the garbage disposal. I had maybe six hours before my blood sugar would skyrocket dangerously high. The pharmacy was closed for the holiday weekend and wouldn’t reopen for three days. The nearest hospital was two hours away. My parents had gone Black Friday shopping and weren’t answering their phones. Without insulin, I’d be in diabetic ketoacidosis within hours— my blood turning acidic as my body started eating itself.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jade said, her finger hovering over the disposal switch. “You’re going to tell Mom and Dad that you’ve been coaching me to fake this whole time. That you taught me how because you wanted someone to share the attention with. You’ll admit you helped me fake all those episodes. Or I destroy the rest of this insulin and you get to experience what a real diabetic emergency feels like.”

My blood sugar was already rising. I could feel the early symptoms starting: the thirst, the need to pee, the slight nausea that would soon become violent vomiting. Without insulin, I could slip into a coma before my parents even got home. I’d die in this kitchen while Jade watched. She smiled as she saw me doing the math in my head, calculating how long I had.

“Choose quickly,” she said, tilting the vials toward the drain. “Your blood sugar’s already climbing. How high can it go before your organs start shutting down?”

I stared at the vials in her hand, my mind racing through options. The disposal hummed beneath them, ready to destroy my only chance at survival. My throat was already getting dry— that telltale sign that my blood sugar was climbing past 200.

“Jade, please—” I started, but she shook her head. “Wrong answer.” She dropped one vial into the disposal and flipped the switch. The grinding noise made me lunge forward, but she held up the remaining insulin like a weapon.

“That’s one down. You’ve got maybe four hours now instead of six. Want to try again?”

My hands were starting to shake— not from low blood sugar this time, but from the adrenaline and rising glucose. I backed away slowly, trying to think. The landline was in the living room. My cell phone was charging upstairs. Even if I could reach either one, who would I call? My parents weren’t answering. The pharmacy was closed. An ambulance would take at least thirty minutes to arrive, and Jade would destroy everything before they got here.

“I can see you calculating,” Jade said, moving to block the kitchen doorway. “There’s no way out of this. Just tell them what I want you to say, and I’ll give you back your insulin. Simple trade.”

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

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.

“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,” Jade 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.

“Tik tok,” 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. 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,” Jade 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. Three 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.

“Practice first,” she said. “A nod isn’t enough. I want to hear you say it. Every detail. How you coached me. How we planned it together. How you helped me research diabetes to make my 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. “Start talking,” she demanded.

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. 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. “We’re not done,” she reminded me. “The confession needs 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— means the acid levels are 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. 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. Had I helped her fake diabetes? A weak nod. Had I taught 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.

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. Beaufort, was getting her morning paper. Jade watched until Mrs. Beaufort 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 three feet. My arms shook with the effort.

She grabbed my ankle, dragging me back to the kitchen. The movement made my vision go white. Anger replaced her earlier calm. The interruption had shown her how precarious her plan was. Anyone could show up. Our parents might return early. A neighbor might notice something wrong. She needed to finish this quickly.

She pulled out all the remaining vials, lining them up on the counter. One by one, she named what each meant. This one was for the birthday party she ruined. This one for the family vacation that became about my medical needs. This one for every time Mom checked on me at night instead of her. The disposal hummed to life.

She held the first vial over it, watching my face— but I could barely focus on her anymore. The room had taken on a dreamlike quality. Nothing felt real except the burning in my veins and the desperate need for air.

She dropped the vial. The grinding sound lasted seconds— thousands of dollars of medication destroyed. She picked up the next one, then the next. Each destruction accompanied by another grievance. Another moment she felt overlooked.

Only two vials remained. My body convulsed, muscles cramping from dehydration and electrolyte imbalance. The pain cut through the fog momentarily. Jade watched with clinical interest. She’d never seen this symptom in her research. Real suffering looked different than performance.

She knelt beside me again, holding the last two vials. Her offer had changed. She no longer needed a full confession— just agreement that I’d stay quiet about what she’d done. Let her tell whatever story she wanted. In exchange, I’d get enough insulin to survive.

I tried to process her words, but thoughts scattered like smoke. My brain was starving for glucose it couldn’t access. Neural pathways misfired. Reality fractured into disconnected moments: Jade’s face. The vials. The knife. The ticking clock.

She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. My head flopped uselessly. She was losing me— and she knew it. The careful timing of her plan was falling apart. She’d underestimated how quickly DKA progressed, how violent the body’s breakdown could be.

A new sound: my phone ringing upstairs. The ringtone I’d assigned to Mom. It rang four times, then went to voicemail.

Jade’s face showed real fear now. If our parents were trying to reach us, they might come home early.

She made a desperate decision. Drawing up insulin from one vial, she prepared a proper dose— not the tiny amount from before, but enough to actually help. She’d give me this shot, stabilize me, then force the agreement when I was coherent.

The needle went into my arm— cold insulin entering dying tissue. It would take time to work, maybe twenty minutes before any improvement.

Jade sat back to wait, keeping the last vial as insurance.

But she’d miscalculated again.

The doorbell rang once more. This time the voice calling through the door was familiar: Mrs. Beaufort, asking if everything was okay. She’d seen the delivery driver leave quickly. Noticed our parents’ car was gone. Worried about us being alone.

Jade froze. Mrs. Beaufort was persistent— the kind of neighbor who baked cookies and checked on everyone. She wouldn’t leave easily. Her voice carried through the door, mentioning she’d brought leftover pie from Thanksgiving.

I tried to call out, but only managed a weak moan. Jade clamped her hand over my mouth, her palm sweaty with panic.

Mrs. Beaufort knocked again— harder this time. She announced she was getting worried and might call our parents.

That threat mobilized Jade. She couldn’t have Mrs. Beaufort calling our parents, alerting them to come home. She stood, smoothing her hair, and walked to the door. Her voice shook slightly as she explained we were fine, just sleeping in.

Mrs. Beaufort wasn’t convinced. She asked to see me specifically, mentioning she knew about my diabetes and worried when she didn’t see me outside like usual.

Jade made excuses, but Mrs. Beaufort’s tone grew more concerned. The conversation stretched on. I could hear the suspicion creeping into her voice. Jade was talking too fast, overexplaining.

The insulin was starting to work— clearing my thoughts marginally. I needed to make noise. Any noise. I knocked over the water glass. It shattered on the tile floor. The sound was unmistakable.

Mrs. Beaufort’s voice rose, demanding to know what that was. Jade claimed I’d dropped something in the kitchen, that everything was fine.

But Mrs. Beaufort had raised three children. She knew when something was wrong. She announced she was calling 911 if Jade didn’t open the door fully and let her see me.

The threat was real. Mrs. Beaufort didn’t bluff.

Jade returned to the kitchen— frantic. Her plan was crumbling. She couldn’t let Mrs. Beaufort call for help, but she also couldn’t let her see me like this. She grabbed the last insulin vial, holding it like a bargaining chip. She hissed that I had one chance: tell Mrs. Beaufort I was fine— just feeling sick from something I ate— and make her leave. If I said anything else, she’d destroy the last vial and disappear before help arrived. I’d be left to explain everything— while dying.

The insulin was working slowly. My thoughts were less scattered, though my body remained weak. I could hear Mrs. Beaufort threatening to use the spare key she had for emergencies. Our parents had given it to her years ago.

Jade pulled me to my feet, supporting most of my weight. We stumbled to the front door together. She whispered final threats in my ear. One wrong word and the last vial would be gone. She’d claim I’d destroyed my own insulin in a fit of anger.

The door opened partially. Mrs. Beaufort’s worried face appeared in the gap. Her eyes immediately found mine, taking in my pale skin, labored breathing, and obvious distress. Her expression hardened with concern.

I opened my mouth. The words that came out surprised everyone— including me.

“Do you still have any of that special tea from your garden? The one that helps with nausea?”

My voice was weak but clear enough. Mrs. Beaufort’s eyes narrowed. She’d known me since I was five. She knew I hated tea— especially her bitter herbal concoctions. But she played along.

“I’ll go get some right away,” she said. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Jade started to close the door, relieved— but Mrs. Beaufort’s foot blocked it. She looked directly at me.

“Have you checked your blood sugar recently?” she asked.

A simple question— but loaded with meaning. She knew the signs of diabetic crisis. 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. Beaufort’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. Beaufort was already walking away— moving faster than her seventy years should allow. She knew something was terribly wrong.

Jade slammed the door. Rage replaced her earlier calculation. Everything was falling apart. She had minutes before Mrs. Beaufort 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. Beaufort’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. Beaufort 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.

During our struggle, while she’d been distracted by Mrs. Beaufort, 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.

She ran for the back door— but it was too late. Red and blue lights were already flashing through the windows. Mrs. Beaufort had given them our address.

Paramedics burst through the front door— Mrs. Beaufort 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 next minutes blurred together. Paramedics checking vitals, starting IV lines, administering emergency dextrose; police officers arriving, taking in the scene; Mrs. Beaufort explaining what she’d witnessed. 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 twenty‑four 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 nonstop 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. Beaufort 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.

After he left, the silence returned— heavier than before. Dad finally stopped pacing and sat in the other chair. He reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. His calloused fingers trembled slightly. Mom moved to sit on the bed’s edge, careful not to disturb the IV line. They told me about finding Jade’s diary months ago but dismissing it as teenage dramatics; about the warning signs they’d ignored, choosing to believe her performances rather than face the ugly truth; about how they’d failed both their daughters in different ways. Their words came out jumbled, interrupted by tears and long pauses.

A social worker visited next. She was older, with gray hair pulled back in a practical bun. She asked about my home situation— whether I felt safe returning there. The question seemed absurd after everything, but I understood the protocol. She left pamphlets about family counseling and support groups for families dealing with medical abuse.

The endocrinologist arrived for evening rounds. Dr. Rollins had been my doctor since diagnosis, and her familiar face brought unexpected comfort. She reviewed my chart, adjusting my insulin regimen to account for the trauma my body had endured. She mentioned that stress could affect my blood sugar control for weeks, requiring closer monitoring.

Night fell outside the window. The hospital cafeteria had long since closed, but Dad found vending machines somewhere. He returned with an armload of snacks, desperate to do something helpful. I managed a few crackers, my stomach still unsettled from the day’s ordeal. Mom’s phone rang constantly— family members had heard something was wrong. She stepped into the hallway to field calls, her voice muffled through the door. I caught fragments about Jade, about charges, about not knowing what would happen next. Each conversation seemed to drain more energy from her.

The night nurse was different— older and more business‑like. She checked my blood sugar every two hours, pricking my fingers with practiced efficiency. The numbers were stabilizing slowly, my body gradually returning to its normal patterns. She brought extra blankets without being asked, recognizing the bone‑deep chill that came after severe DKA. I dozed fitfully between blood sugar checks. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jade holding those vials over the disposal. The grinding sound echoed in my dreams. I’d wake gasping, convinced my insulin pump was beeping “empty” again. Mom would squeeze my hand, reminding me where I was.

Morning brought new doctors, new discussions about discharge planning. The psychiatrist was required after what they classified as a traumatic event. She asked careful questions about my mental state, screening for post‑traumatic stress. I answered honestly about the nightmares, the anxiety about my insulin supply, the fear that hadn’t quite faded.

Physical therapy came next. The severe dehydration had left me weaker than expected. The therapist helped me walk the hospital corridors, building strength back gradually. My legs shook with each step, muscles protesting after their ordeal. She assured me this was normal— that recovery would take time.

The pharmacy delivered my new insulin supply directly to the room. The pharmacist went through each vial with me, verifying the prescription and expiration dates. Mom watched anxiously as I checked each one, her hand hovering near the bag like she could protect it through proximity. Dad asked about getting a lockbox for home storage.

Really makes me wonder what Jade’s telling herself right now in that holding cell while her family picks up the pieces of her mess. The way she just ran when the sirens came says everything about how much planning really went into this whole scheme.

Discharge planning began after lunch. The case manager discussed follow‑up appointments, emergency protocols, and safety planning. She mentioned that Jade wouldn’t be allowed near me once released on bail— that a restraining order was already in process. The words felt surreal, like we were discussing a stranger instead of my sister.

Mrs. Beaufort returned that afternoon with homemade soup. She’d been cooking all morning, she said— needing something to do with her hands. She sat with Mom while I sipped the broth. The two women finding comfort in shared silence. Before leaving, she pressed a spare key into Mom’s hand, insisting we keep it for emergencies.

The insurance coordinator arrived with paperwork. The destroyed insulin would be covered under our policy’s emergency‑replacement clause. She walked us through the forms, explaining coverage for the hospital stay and follow‑up care. Dad asked about counseling coverage, his voice carefully neutral.

My regular insulin pump needed replacing after the trauma. The diabetes educator brought a new one, going through the setup process methodically. My hands shook as I primed the tubing— muscle memory warring with fresh trauma. She was patient, letting me work through each step at my own pace.

Evening brought more visitors. My aunt arrived from two states away, having driven all day after Mom’s call. She hugged me carefully, mindful of the IV— then turned to my parents with less gentleness. I heard heated whispers in the hallway, accusations about enabling Jade, about ignoring warning signs.

The night shift arrived again— different nurses this time, but the same routine of blood‑sugar checks and vital signs. I slept better— exhaustion finally overwhelming anxiety. The nightmares were still there, but less vivid. My mind beginning to process the trauma into manageable pieces.

The second morning brought discharge papers. Dr. Rollins did a final examination, pronouncing me stable enough for home care. She adjusted my insulin ratios again, accounting for the stress hormones still flooding my system. She scheduled follow‑up appointments for the next week, wanting to monitor my recovery closely.

The discharge nurse went through a lengthy checklist: medications verified, follow‑up appointments confirmed, emergency contact numbers updated. She had me demonstrate drawing up insulin and checking my blood sugar— standard protocol, but suddenly weighted with new meaning. Mom watched every movement as if memorizing the procedures herself.

Dad had brought fresh clothes from home. Getting dressed felt strange after two days in a hospital gown. My jeans hung loose— the dehydration having stripped away water weight. The simple act of tying my shoes left me breathless. My body still recovering from its ordeal.

The wheelchair ride to the exit was mandatory— hospital policy regardless of my protests. Dad pulled the car around while Mom gathered the accumulated belongings: flowers from relatives, get‑well cards from neighbors who’d heard the news, the untouched pamphlets about family counseling.

The drive home was silent except for the radio playing softly. I sat in the back seat, watching familiar streets pass by. Everything looked the same but felt different— like returning to a foreign country. Mom kept turning to check on me, her seatbelt straining with each movement.

Our house looked exactly as we’d left it three days ago. The Black Friday sale paper still sat on the kitchen table. Jade’s coffee mug stood in the sink— unwashed. The normalcy felt obscene after everything that had happened. Dad immediately began gathering Jade’s belongings from common areas, stuffing them into boxes.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, unable to enter. The broken glass had been cleaned up, the insulin residue mopped away— but I could still see it all: the counter where I’d gripped for support, the sink where I’d vomited, the spot where I’d collapsed.

Mom gently guided me to the living room instead. The lockbox arrived by delivery that afternoon. Dad installed it in my bedroom closet immediately, adding a combination lock for extra security. We loaded my insulin supply inside, counting each vial twice. He gave me the combination, made me practice opening it several times. Mom wrote it down and hid the paper in her jewelry box.

My bedroom felt like a sanctuary and a prison simultaneously. Everything was exactly as I’d left it, but Jade’s presence lingered. I found one of my old glucose meters in my desk drawer— one she must have missed during her search. The discovery made me shake uncontrollably until Mom held me steady.

Dinner was takeout— nobody feeling up to cooking. We ate in the living room, abandoning the dining table where so many family dramas had unfolded. The food tasted like cardboard, but I forced it down, knowing my blood sugar needed the stability. Dad obsessively checked the nutrition information— calculating carbs with new intensity.

The doorbell rang after dark. We all froze— the sound triggering fresh anxiety. It was just another neighbor dropping off a casserole and expressing concern. Mom accepted it graciously while Dad and I remained hidden in the living room. The normalcy of suburban kindness felt jarring against our new reality.

Bedtime brought new challenges. I checked my insulin supply three times before attempting sleep. Mom offered to stay in my room, but I declined. I needed to face this alone— to begin rebuilding my sense of security. She compromised by leaving both our doors open, promising to listen for any distress.

Sleep came in fragments. I woke every few hours to check my blood sugar— the routine now tinged with paranoia. Each reading was normal, but I checked twice anyway. The insulin pump hummed softly on my nightstand, its familiar sound both comforting and triggering.

Morning arrived with Mom already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. She’d researched low‑glycemic recipes overnight, determined to help manage my diabetes better. Dad sat at the table with a notebook, writing down questions for the lawyer he’d contacted. The pretense of “normal family breakfast” felt forced but necessary.

The pharmacy called to confirm my prescription refills were ready. Mom insisted on picking them up immediately despite having just received the hospital supply. She returned with bags of supplies— enough insulin to last months. We added it all to the lockbox. The growing stockpile was a tangible comfort.

Dr. Rollins’s office called to confirm my follow‑up appointment. The receptionist mentioned they’d added extra time to the slot, understanding this visit would involve more than routine diabetes management. Mom marked it on three different calendars, her anxiety manifesting in overpreparation.

I spent the afternoon testing my blood sugar obsessively. Every slight symptom triggered panic. Was I thirsty because my sugar was high— or just dehydrated? Did my hands shake from low blood sugar— or residual trauma? Mom finally hid my extra test strips, limiting me to the prescribed checking schedule.

The detective called with updates. Jade had made bail but was staying with a friend across town. The restraining order was officially in place. He mentioned the prosecutor was taking the case seriously, given the life‑threatening nature of her actions. Court dates would be scheduled soon.

Dinner was another quiet affair. We developed a new routine already— eating in the living room to avoid the kitchen’s memories. Dad had started researching home security systems, showing us options on his tablet: motion sensors, cameras, alarm systems— anything to restore our sense of safety. The counselor called to schedule our first family session. Mom had reached out to several before finding one who specialized in medical trauma and family dysfunction. The first appointment was set for next week— giving us time to process the immediate crisis before diving into deeper issues.

Night fell with its familiar anxieties. I checked the insulin supply twice more despite knowing nothing had changed. Mom had started a log, documenting every vial’s location and expiration date. Dad installed a baby monitor in my room, insisting it was just temporary— “just until things feel normal again.”

The second night home was marginally better. I only woke twice to check blood sugars— only verified my insulin supply once. Mom appeared in my doorway during one check, wordlessly confirming she was still maintaining her vigil. We nodded at each other in the darkness— a silent acknowledgement of our new reality.

Morning brought the beginning of routine. Breakfast. Blood‑sugar check. Insulin dose. Recording everything in the log book. Mom watched but didn’t hover as much. Dad left for work reluctantly— calling twice before lunch to check in. The house felt emptier without his anxious presence.

I ventured into the kitchen for the first time since returning home. The familiar space felt foreign— each surface holding invisible memories. Mom found me standing frozen by the sink, unable to move forward or back. She gently led me through making tea, reclaiming the space one small action at a time.

The mail brought medical bills and insurance paperwork. Mom sorted through them methodically— creating files for everything related to the incident. She’d already started the appeals process for the destroyed insulin, determined to have Jade’s actions documented in every possible system.

Mrs. Beaufort stopped by with more food and a listening ear. She shared stories of her own family struggles, normalizing our pain without minimizing it. Before leaving, she made us promise to use that spare key if we ever needed anything— day or night. Her fierce protectiveness brought Mom to tears again.

The afternoon was dedicated to reorganizing my diabetes supplies. We created multiple emergency kits, strategically placed throughout the house. Each contained glucose tablets, a spare meter, and ketone testing strips. Dad labeled each one with bright red tape, making them impossible to miss.

Dad turning into a security‑system expert while Mom becomes a meal‑prep champion shows how trauma makes everyone suddenly pick up new hobbies nobody asked for.

Dr. Rollins’s follow‑up appointment confirmed my physical recovery was progressing well. My blood‑sugar patterns were stabilizing, though still showing stress‑related spikes. She adjusted my insulin ratios again and recommended continuous glucose monitoring for added peace of mind. The technology would alert us to dangerous trends before they became critical.

The drive home was when Mom finally broke down completely. She pulled over, sobbing about failing to protect me, about enabling Jade’s behavior, about the thousand small signs she’d ignored. I held her hand while she cried— both of us learning that healing would come in waves.

Dad had dinner waiting, having left work early to cook. He’d made my favorite meal from childhood, trying to create new positive memories in our kitchen. We ate together at the dining table for the first time since the incident— reclaiming another piece of our home.

Evening brought exhaustion— but also a strange peace. We’d survived another day. My blood sugars had stayed stable. The insulin remained safely locked away. These small victories felt monumental. Mom suggested watching a movie together— something light and distracting.

Bedtime came with less anxiety. I checked my supplies only once. Recorded my blood sugar normally. Mom kissed my forehead good night— a gesture she hadn’t made since I was young. Dad double‑checked the new alarm system before retiring.

We were learning to feel safe again.

The night passed peacefully. I woke only once— more from habit than need. My blood sugar was perfect. My insulin pump hummed steadily. I lay in the darkness, listening to the familiar sounds of home— and felt something inside begin to unknot.

Morning dawned with possibility. The trauma would always be there, woven into our family’s fabric. But we were learning to live with it— to build new routines around the scars. Mom made breakfast without hovering. Dad left for work with only one check‑in call planned. I sat at the kitchen table— the same spot where everything had started— and took my morning insulin without fear. The simple act felt like reclaiming power. Mom smiled at me across the table, hope beginning to creep back into her eyes.

Life would continue. Different than before. Marked by new vigilance and hard‑won wisdom. But continuing nonetheless.

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Well folks, that’s a wrap on our time together. Appreciate you letting me tag along and call out life’s little plot twists. Always a good time. If you made it to the end, drop a comment. I love reading all your comments.