My brother killed someone. Mom called me, frantic, wanting me—the best lawyer in the family, his big sister—to save him. Instead, I hung up and dialed 911. I used every bit of my professional skill to make sure he ended up behind bars. My stupid little brother has no idea. I’ve spent eight years planning this, carefully molding him into the kind of person who would commit murder. It's time to return all the pain he put me through. 01 It was Thanksgiving Eve, supposed to be one of the happiest nights of the year. Mom was a whirlwind in the kitchen, prepping for the big feast tomorrow. I watched Dad playing video games with my brother, Mike, a familiar ache of envy in my chest. Suddenly, Mom poked her head out, her voice sharp. "Sarah! Get in here and help! Stop slacking off!" Dad finally glanced up from the screen, annoyed. "You heard your mother. Go on! What are you spacing out for?" Then, just like that, he was back to doting on Mike, ruffling his hair. "Alright, buddy, let's get back to this level." Between Mom and me bustling around, a huge dinner finally hit the table tonight too – a sort of pre-Thanksgiving feast. Mom’s a great cook, and she'd even made my absolute favorite: buffalo wings. "Go get your brother!" Mom ordered, heading back for another dish. I walked over to where Mike was still glued to his game. "Mike, dinner's ready." He didn't even look up. "Come on, let's eat!" I nudged him again. That’s when he kicked out, hard, right into my stomach. Pain shot through me, and I crumpled to the floor. "Why did you kick me?" I choked back tears, demanding an answer. "Oh, stop being dramatic," Dad said dismissively, pulling Mike up and leading him to the table. "He barely tapped you." Mom came out of the kitchen then, her face clouded with irritation. "Get up and bring that last bowl. Quit playing the victim!" She sat down, signaling for everyone to start eating. Tears welled up, hot and stinging. I knew explaining was useless. Mom wouldn't listen. But at least there were wings. Thinking about them, I reached out, my heart lifting slightly as I picked up a juicy one, my favorite flat. Just as I was about to put it on my plate, Mike snatched it right off my fork. "Mine first!" he crowed. Before I could say anything, Mom cut in. "You're the older sister, Sarah. Let your brother have first pick." Defeated, I pulled my fork back, hoping I could get one later when he’d had his fill. Dinner was almost over. Only two wings were left on the platter. Seeing that no one else was going for them, I reached out again. But as soon as my fork moved, Mom spoke up again. "Leave those for Mike. You know they're his favorite." "But Mom, I haven't had a single one," I protested, the unfairness burning. "You're the sister, you should let him have them. Honestly, you’re so selfish!" Dad added impatiently from his end of the table. "He likes them, but I like them too! I didn't get any. There are two left, we can each have one." Defiantly, I speared one wing and put it in my bowl, leaving the last one for Mike. Maybe because it was the night before Thanksgiving, Mom and Dad didn’t want a bigger scene. They actually let me keep it. But Mike, used to always getting his way, couldn't believe it. He threw his fork down onto the table, glaring at me. "You're a bad sister!" he spat, his voice full of venom. "I'm gonna kill you!" I ignored him, focusing on the wing in my bowl. I took a big bite. The spicy, tangy sauce exploded in my mouth. It was delicious, and for that one second, totally worth the fight. 2: The Fireplace Later that night, Dad poked the embers in the fireplace, making them glow brighter, before heading off to bed. Mom had disappeared somewhere. It was just me and Mike left in the living room, the TV droning on. Suddenly, Mike gasped. "Sarah! Look! What's that in the fire?" His sudden shout got my attention. Curious, I leaned forward, peering towards the fireplace grate where he was pointing. All I saw were glowing red embers and white ash. "What am I supposed to be looking at?" I asked, confused. As I started to turn back, a sudden, immense force slammed into the back of my head, shoving my face towards the fireplace. It was Mike. While I was leaning down, he’d pushed my head with all his might, right towards the scorching heat. Flames seemed to leap towards me. An instant, searing pain overwhelmed me as the heat hit my face. I could smell burning hair, feel the skin on my cheek tighten and scorch. Panic surged. I slammed my hands onto the hearth, pushing back with every ounce of strength I had. My survival instinct screamed – push away or you’ll die. The heat intensified, my nostrils filling with the acrid smell of smoke and burnt flesh. Choking, gasping, I finally managed to use my leverage, shoving hard enough to knock Mike off balance. He stumbled back and fell to the floor. I sucked in cool, blessed air, but the relief was immediately swamped by agonizing pain. I knew, instinctively, my face was badly burned. I was disfigured. Hysterical, I screamed at him, "What were you trying to do? You almost killed me!" "Yeah! I wanted to kill you!" His reply was instant, cold, and full of contempt. He scrambled up from the floor, grabbed a handful of my singed hair, and yanked my head back, his face twisted with rage. "You dared to take that wing from me today? You're just the family slave! You don't obey, I kill you!" "What's going on? What happened?!" Mom and Dad rushed back into the room, alerted by the commotion. All my hurt and terror flooded me at once, tears streaming down my burning cheeks. Through the blur, I saw their anxious faces. For a split second, I thought they'd rush me to the hospital, see how badly I was hurt. But then, like a gust of wind, they blew past me. Two dark shapes moving quickly. I froze. 3: The Lie "Mikey! Son! Are you okay? Are you hurt?!" Mom and Dad were hovering over him, examining him frantically as if the sky had fallen. "His hand brushed the hot grate, it’s burned! We need to get him to the ER, what if it scars?" Mom fretted, her voice tight with panic. "Okay, okay, I'll get the car!" Dad grabbed his keys and practically sprinted out the door, stumbling over a shoe near the entrance in his haste. Mom rounded on me then, her eyes blazing. "How could you let this happen? We were gone for two minutes, and you let him get hurt like this!" It was like she couldn't see my face, blistered and raw. Like she couldn’t smell the burnt hair still clinging to me. All she saw was the red mark on the back of Mike’s hand where he must have touched the hot metal grate. She didn't even ask what happened. She didn't ask if I was in pain. "Got the car! Let's go!" Dad yelled from outside. "You just wait 'til I get back, young lady!" Mom snapped, pulling Mike towards the door. Then they were gone. Somewhere outside, maybe a neighbor setting off early fireworks, a bang echoed. The holiday spirit felt like a cruel joke. I stood alone in the silent living room, the throbbing pain in my face a burning reminder. I was abandoned. Fighting back the escalating pain, I found a pair of scissors and hacked off the burnt strands of my long hair. There was some antiseptic left from Mom dabbing Mike's hand earlier. Staring into the hallway mirror at the horrifying reflection, I clumsily cleaned my wounds as best I could. Then I went to my room and collapsed onto the bed. My face is destroyed, and they didn't even care! Why? Why don't they care about me? The grotesque image in the mirror shattered me, but their cold indifference cut even deeper. It was crystal clear now. In my parents' eyes, Mike and I were not equal. I would never, ever be as important as him. I didn't sleep at all. Just as dawn was breaking, exhaustion finally claimed me. I'd barely drifted off when BAM! My bedroom door flew open. "Your brother told me what happened on the way to the hospital," Mom said, her voice low as she approached my bed. "He didn't mean it. Don't hold a grudge." "Don't hold a grudge?" I shot up, incredulous. "Do you have any idea what he did? He shoved my face towards the fire! I'm disfigured! And you want me to just forgive him?!" My voice rose, thick with tears and outrage. "Keep your voice down, your brother's sleeping," Dad hissed, appearing in the doorway, frowning. "We know you're hurting," Mom said, her eyes welling up (whether with real tears or manipulative ones, I couldn't tell). "But Mikey's still young. If people find out about this, how can he face his friends at school? How will he get along?" "Exactly," Dad chimed in, his tone softening slightly. "If anyone asks about your face, just say you tripped and fell near the fireplace. It was an accident. It’s better for the family's reputation." A part of me had sworn never to be swayed by them again, but hearing them, seeing their apparent concern (even if it was for the family image), I wavered. He was my brother, after all. My only sibling. Maybe if I sacrificed more, they’d finally appreciate me, give me some of the love they showered on Mike. "Okay," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. "Okay, Mom, Dad. I'll tell people what you said. You guys should get some sleep. I'm tired." I saw the relief wash over their faces, and my stomach twisted. I had caved. Again. After staying home for a while, letting the worst of the burns heal into angry scars, I knew I had to go back to school. Finishing my education was my only way out. I put on a baseball cap pulled low and a scarf wrapped high around my neck and face, and headed out. Walking past the neighbors' houses, I caught their strange looks, saw their mouths moving, whispering. Was my face that hideous? A wave of shame washed over me. I ducked my head and practically ran the rest of the way to school. When I got to my classroom, my desk had been moved to the very back corner, isolated. "Look at her face. Serves her right." "Yeah, totally." I heard the whispers behind me, classmates talking about me. "What are you talking about?" I finally spun around, unable to take it anymore.
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