Ice cold droplets fall from the ceiling, as I try to cover up with the meager piece of fabric I am given. I don’t care: the cold is my ally.
     I stare mindlessly at the silver steel bars until I see something moving into my line of vision.
     “Here’s your meal Ms. Scarborough,” the guard sets down the plate inside my cell. I spot, on the corner of the tray, a cookie. I hate cookies. I leave the plate there.
     My stomach pinches, yet I am accustomed. Every time I spot that dessert, I instantly get the pain in my head--continuous pulsing throughout my ears and neck-- riots inside my body. That same irritation started 22 years ago.
     I am no way in the wrong for my actions, yet the feeling arises each time. My sister induced most of this stress for which I severely suffer.
     I was a great sister. I let the little beast live with me. She had a place to sleep and food to eat; however, just like our mother, I loomed over her every move. I was nowhere and everywhere in that house. I had everything in a certain place and if it was misplaced, Sara would surely feel my wrath. The only place I did not care to venture was the bright pink and yellow space known as my little sister’s room.
     The only glimpse of light would show through in her space. The rest of the house lie in the depths of all unknown for her--for me, the darkness was the only way of living.
     I hated everything my sister did, besides when she left for school-- that was the best part of her. No matter the harshness of my tone or the stinging of my words, she continued to be the joyful one. So happy each day--skipping—hopping--with her little purple purse and that ten-year-old smirk. I hated it. She continued to be the dazzling pain in my neck no matter how many times I tried to ship her off to our grandmothers.
     I know that I am more pessimistic than others, and I prefer gloom, but I sure am not mad. The old neighbors and these guards call me a lunatic--insane. I call it logical. What person wants to hear the high-pitched giggle of a bratty kid in the midst of the night?
     At least I am here and hear nothing more than my own voice inside my head.
     Back to the reason for my pain--Sara. She arrived home one evening from school, making me get the door for her--so selfish. As I was on my way for the door, all of the pain and suffering with the problematic child over took my body, and I knew what I had to do. I had put up with the creature for way to long. I swung open the door and spotted in her hand, a box of peanut butter cookies--they pushed me over the edge. I grabbed her by the collar and began to pull with no regard to the objects around. Thrashing every which way, I grabbed the heaviest, sturdiest item in hand--one swing to the temple--the body was motionless on the floor.
     I retreated to the place I never dared to enter. I jumped on the bed, pealed each layer of sheet away until I came to bare mattress. I engraved a slit down the middle of the mattress with the knife I retrieved from the kitchen. As I ripped out some of the springs, I knew I had made the best descision of my life.
I dragged the limp corpse into the room she once played, and effortlessly slipped each limb into the space within the mattress.
I bent over with better posture, and collected the sheets that had been on the bed earlier that day. I gave them a slight brush and placed them back in their original position. Taking a step back--smiling--I was pleased with the room--for once in my life. I locked and deserted that area. I had never felt more confident.
     I sat on the dusty old couch in the corner of my living room. I said to myself, “Anyone would have done this. This is the best for both of us. I am not a lunatic. How dare those neighbors say such ridiculous things.”
     I then heard the door creaking open--slowly--then a sudden slam shut. I propelled forward off the sofa and peaked around the corner--one eye after the other.
     “SARA,” I said with an obliterating shriek.
     “Yes? What is this box of cookies doing outside on the porch? Don’t you hate this kind?”
     I pushed her aside and ran to the forbidden room, busted the door down and ripped open the mattress.
     My eyes fell upon an unknown face and her badge covered sash.
     With a foggy mind, much alike to my first time putting my “sister” to rest, I picked up the knife I had left on the floor and eyeballed my sister who had been standing at the bedroom door. I dashed towards her and inserted the knife into her neck--the same spot that haunts mine now.
She deserved it. I again rested with peace--unlike her--and stuffed her inside the mattress.
     Now, as I am away from my home, I am in this place I should not be; however, find it comforting with its darkness. I know what I did years ago was nothing out of the ordinary even though the police and my neighbors beg to differ. What I did is something more individuals should consider. As for the random young girl, I know not of what happened to her and her family. At least I put another mother, father or sibling out of the misery of another idiotic being called a child.