So deep is the conflict, I believe I cannot breathe for all the doubt, guilt and sorrow my sister is pushing into me as her hand presses harder upon my sore breastplate and her fingers nervously twist the rusted clasp I remember so well. She is listening to the expert medic as he mutters excuses for not knowing what’s happening. She knows not what she does to me, knows not what she did. She cries into tissues my mother hands her, yet the sound of her sadness almost seems weak. I doubted her in life at times. She waged a constant battle – and, to survive it, I waged mine. Each young body tiring the other for no reason but the chance to win a pointless game – a game I told her was not necessary many times. She saw me as a competitor and wanted everything I wanted, had to have everything I had. She saw me as a threat – my own sister – and that always hurt.