I sat in my closet, anxious, alone, waiting. Stuff like this didn’t happen to people like me, I’d done nothing wrong. My closet door creaked open and I stepped out, praying she had given up.
I gripped the knife I held in my hand to cease my trembling hand. Taking a deep, shaking breath, I ventured out, everything quiet. Too quiet for her.
The hallway was dead, like I could be very soon. Room by room, I scoured for her, coming up empty. I then reached the last room, her room.
Before I could turn react and face her one last time, a sharp pain pricked my back. The last six words I heard were: “You were always my favorite sister.”