Her beady eyes danced back and forth, watching. I dared not to make a move. Her arms lay menacing and outstretched. I knew she was trying to catch me in the act. I knew if she had the evidence, I was done for. My heart raced, and I had never been so scared.
She moved an inch towards me. I moved an inch back. Her eyes remained locked on me the entire time, pupils small pinpricks in a sadistic grin. She lunged and tried to look behind my back. I was too fast.
What came next was what inevitably came in these situations. It had to happen. It was my lot to be born embroiled in a sisterly battle, and, most of the time, I accepted the consequences of war. You can't enter World War II and exit without some kind of injury. Indeed, my own grandfather told us stories time and time again of lost limbs, eyes that had to be amputated, even a thing called a 'broken heart' which I never quite understood. This time, however, I was guilty. Wrath would come to me. Mother would find out, and I would lose