I watch emotionless as my parents move frantically about the house. Having just returned from their second honeymoon only moments before, imagine their surprise when they walked in to see the lifeless, blood-soaked body of my older sister Maxazria on the floor of the foyer.

I observe the pathetic scene in front of me with sick amusement: my father is calling the police, his voice inaudible from his sobs. My mother, my poor, pitiful mother, is crouched down next to Maxazria’s body and cradling her in her arms, her tears falling like Niagara Falls look like a leaky faucet.

“My baby,” she says in between sobs as she holds the body closer to her. “My poor, innocent baby.”

To most it may seem odd that I simply sit here watching my parents grieve over my sister while I do nothing. Looking at the walls of our home, with the pictures of us together, happy and laughing; you’d think that we were as close as sisters could possibly be. But we weren’t. Far from it actually. From the moment that our parents said, “Max, look at your new baby sister. Isn’t she so cute?” she has seen me as a threat.

She was only three when I was born and, since she was an only child, she was very jealous of the new addition to the family. This is a natural reaction for any child adjusting to life with a new sibling, but in this situation the jealously never ceased. Instead it just grew more and more intense until, finally, it developed into full blown hatred.

The torture began with small little things. When I was a baby, she would make faces at me through the bars of my crib, pinch me as I was sleeping, and take my bottles away from me. As we both grew older and I discovered the art of tattling, the abuse worsened.

When I was six years old and she was nine, our aunt came to visit us for the weekend. When she came, she brought dolls for both me and Maxazria. Maxazria’s doll had red hair and a plain blue dress with a white apron and my doll had black curly hair with a fancy satin dress. Needless to say Maxazria was jealous and later that night she took it out on me. Since our aunt was sleeping in Maxazria’s room, she was forced to sleep in my room with me to my despair. She kicked me in my ribs under the sheets, hit me when any part of me touched her, and pushed me out of the bed. She threatened to cut off my hair when if I told our parents what happened.

The next night, since I was terrified of sharing a bed with her again, I slept downstairs in a hallway closet. In the middle of the night, Maxazria came and opened the door. Even though it was dark I could still make out her tall, lanky frame in front of me. She knelt down and cupped my chin in her hand; she turned my face side to side as if she was examining it, thumped my nose, and shut the door. I don’t know exactly what it was, but something in the way that she looked at me that night terrified me. She’s given me the exact same look ever since then.

Maxazria could sense that I was scared of her. She knew that she had complete power over me and her hatred thrived off of that power. Now that we’re both teenagers whenever she and her stoner friends come over, they’ll force me to act as their servant or lock me in my bedroom closet. If I got something that she wanted, it didn’t matter if I liked it or not, she would just take it and I wouldn’t say anything because I knew what would happen if I did.

Despite her cruelty to me, I love her unconditionally. She’s family, the same blood that runs through her veins runs through mine. However, I’ve tolerated her abuse for fifteen years and now all the physical and physiological effects have finally caught up with me. Tonight was the last straw.

Since our parents were away on their trip, Maxazria and I were left home alone. Earlier this evening I was just sitting in my room reading when she walks in drunk. She charged toward me and threw my book out of my hands and grabbed me by my hair and pulled me onto the floor. She wrapped her hands around my neck and started strangling me. I try and get her off me but she’s stronger than me. Not knowing what else to do, I punched in her square in the face. She fell back onto the floor. I stood and tried to help her up but all she did was claw at my arms.

Once she stood up she scratched my face hard, making sure that her nails broke the skin, and knocked me down to the floor. That was when I saw the look again. After all these years, I finally figured out what the ominous feature in her look was: it was a mixture of hate, anger, and misery. It was a look of pure evil. Demonic even.

Without a word, Maxazria walked out of the room and left me there on the floor. A tsunami of emotions crashed down, like a wave, onto my body. There was confusion, frustration, but the most vivid emotion was fury. I stood up and looked at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. Maxazria’s nails had left long jagged scars on my face, starting at the top of my left eye, going across my mouth and stopping at top of my neck. My gaze went from my reflection to the framed picture of Maxazria and me from when I was seven. I looked at the fake smile plastered on our faces and that’s when I finally snapped. I had to do something. I couldn’t let that monster make me afraid to sleep at night anymore.

The feel of my cell phone vibrating in my pocket brought me out of my thoughts. I looked down at the caller ID. It said MOM. I pressed the answer key.

“Hello,” I answered calmly.

“Hey Emma,” mom said. “Is Maxie asleep or something? I tried calling her and she didn’t pick up.”

“Yeah. She fell asleep in front of the TV,” I replied.

“Oh. Well I’m just calling to let you girls know that your father and I should be home in about twenty five minutes.”

“That’s great. Can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see you too. Bye.”

I laid my phone down on the dresser, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and made my way downstairs.

I descended the stairs quickly but softly, careful not to hit the squeaky third step from the landing. I peered into the living room and saw that Maxazria was asleep on the couch. I walked up to the couch, picked up one of the accent pillows, and held it firmly over her face. Once she started kicking I held it down as hard as I could, but she was to strong for me.

She grabbed me by my shoulders and pushed me down on the couch. I don’t know what exactly happened at that moment, but it was like I had a major adrenaline rush. I shoved her back, grabbed her hair, and rammed it against the coffee table. For a split second I was surprised at what I had done, but that was quickly overshadowed by the feeling of superiority that was started to wash over me. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t scared of my sister. I wanted her to hurt; I wanted her to feel the exact same pain that I’d felt for 15 years. I wanted her to suffer.

As she struggled to get up from the floor, I grabbed her ankles and dragged her into the foyer of the house. Once she found the strength, she stood up and advanced toward me. I grabbed one of the candelabras off the wall and hurled it against her head, knocking her to the floor once again. It was exciting really, because normally I wasn’t a violent person, but at that moment I felt absolutely lethal.

While she was on the floor, I ran into the kitchen and looked through all the drawers until I found what I was looking for: dad’s carving knife.

I looked at my sister crumpled on the floor at my feet. Her head was bleeding and her arms were pretty badly bruised, but I didn’t care. I wanted her weak. I wanted her helpless. I wanted her dead.

I raised the knife up above my head and brought it down with one swift motion. From that moment on I went numb. I was deaf to her pleas for me to stop. I didn’t feel her hands clenching my arms. All I saw was red. When she stopped moving I feel to my knees, overcome with relief.

“It’s over,” I said to myself. “The nightmare is finally over.”

From outside I heard the sound of car doors opening and closing.

I walked over the stairs and sat down on the fifth step. It wasn’t until then that I realized that I was exhausted. I felt a smile fight at the corners of my mouth as I heard the sound of keys unlocking the door.

Now, as the sound of police sirens in the distance grow louder and louder, I come to the realization of what I’ve done. I’ve killed my sister. My own flesh and blood. I look over at my mother cradling Maxazria’s body in her arms and smile. I regret nothing.

Police officers start to fill the house, tearing my mother away from Maxazria’s body, questioning my father about what happened, others marking off the crime scene. One officer sees me and comes over to me.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a husky tone.

“Yes. Just fine actually,” I reply.

I look over to where Maxazria’s body lies. Two people from the city coroners’ office taking her body and placing it into a bag laid out on a stretcher, although I don’t see why they bother. Isn’t the cause of death obvious?

“Do you know what happened here?” the officer asks.

I watch as Maxazria’s body is carried out of the house. I take the knife, blood stained and still in my hand, and present it to the officer.

“I’ve killed my sister.”