I love my sister, but I hate it when she tries to poison me. She nearly killed me last week, and I spent the entire weekend in the bed we shared together, sweating out the poison arrowroot she had lovingly fed me. On Friday evening, I thrashed out against the monsters from my vivid fever dreams, but by Sunday morning I welcomed them in. The poison claimed me for itself, shutting down my organs like someone turning off light switches. Mom had lain awake beside me for three days, feeling my forehead every ten minutes and calling my name in a voice that was stained with terror. She did not call a doctor and I did not expect her to, but I felt the betrayal just the same.
When I finally awoke this Tuesday morning, my skin was red and blistered and oozed out a clear liquid that smelt like rotting plums. I inspected my wounds with concealed anger while Lexie stood at our doorway and watched me approvingly.
“You’re alive,” she said chirpily. “I knew you’d make it.” But her voice suggested otherwise. I had ignored her, and poked at the liquid that seeped from my blisters and felt the burn of it on my fingertips.
“Lexie. Lexie,” I murmured drowsily, never taking my eyes from my wounds. “What have you done to me?”
But she didn’t answer me. Wouldn’t.
It was a familiar question in our house, Lexie, what have you done? Lexie, what did you do? Lexie, why did you poison the Holloway girl, she was too young to die.