I have to kill my sister.
I can’t. I can’t do this.
I glance across the kitchen.
I have to. I have no choice.
My face is wet, my throat is bone dry. There’s a buzzing inside my head, the sound of abject terror.
‘Do it,’ my sister says in a croaky whisper, as if it’s that simple, as if killing her is something I can do.
She’s my family, my blood, one of the three people I love most in the world.
Tears slide down her face. Greta never cries. She’s the strong one, the practical one. And now I have to do something unforgivable.
From outside comes the sound of fireworks. The Oakpark summer party. Our neighbours eating and drinking on the green, oblivious to what’s happening in my kitchen.
‘I love you so much.’ My voice is hoarse, my limbs are loose. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The sky lights up with fireworks as she rolls up her sleeve.
My throat contracts with grief.
I lean towards her, Death come to take her. A sob lurches through me.
The syringe feels like nothing. It should feel cold or hot or heavy, something to signify the power it holds, but it doesn’t. It’s light and nothingy. I glance around the kitchen one more time. How is this happening? Everything looks just as it always does. The scratched wooden table of our childhood, the bluepainted cupboards, the knotty hardwood floors.
My hand shakes as I inch the tip of the needle towards my sister’s vein. She closes her eyes…
the narrator is grappling with. The scene is cinematic—especially with the fireworks in the background, contrasting the inner turmoil of the narrator with the outward celebration of life continuing for everyone else. https://www-ipass.com