My Sister Survived My Deat
Language: en
The fever felt like a physical weight, a branding iron pressed against my forehead as I lay huddled on the floor of the utility room. The door was locked from the outside. I could hear my mother’s voice through the thin wood—sharp, impatient, brittle. She told me to stop banging on the door, that today was my sister’s last day, and she wouldn't have me ruining it with another one of my "tantrums." I croaked out that my head was splitting, that my skin felt like it was melting off my bones, but the only response was the fading thud of her footsteps. Before the world went dark, a bitter…