sisters He's sleeping, the disgusting chubby killer. Oh, I know he's just a baby and he's supposed to be cute, but I know better. He killed her. If it wasn't for this sweet little cherub with her eyes, she'd still be alive. And now I'm stuck with the little brat that killed my sister. Typical.

She was always the favorite child – the bright, vivid, magical one, while I stood bony and awkward in the shadows. I hated her for that – hated her for having a way out of the mind-numbing everyday routine, while I was trapped inside it. I was mean to her, I admit it. Anything I could do to get back at her, any mean prank or cruel remark or casual taunt was fine by me. And yet she loved me. She was just that kind of person – genuinely nice, without being cloying.

Wild horses couldn't have dragged out of me, but I loved her too.

I know what happened. I read the letter. She and her husband died to save their baby. She's dead – I still can't believe it. I hadn't seen her in years but still – you don't forget a sister. You can't just get rid of them, like an awful boyfriend or cranky roommate. You're stuck together, forever.

At least I thought we were. Damn kid, whining in his basket, invading the shell I've built to keep the hurt out. He has her eyes. Every time I see them I remember her, and it's like a knife in the side. And I have to take care of him. Sister do that kind of thing. Even when he may as well have killed her ...