I Died While They Saved Her

My little sister Celine was six years old when hunters caught her. They kept her in a silver cage for three days. By the time our parents found her, the damage was done. She came home with seizures and PTSD. The healer said any loud noise, strong smell, or sudden stress could trigger an episode and put her life at risk. So my entire life was rearranged around her silence. I learned to walk quietly, speak quietly, cry quietly, so that nothing about me would ever reach her. Whenever I broke down from the exhaustion of it, my parents would hold my face in their hands and say the same thing. "You're the strong one, Iris. This family needs you to be strong. Can you keep this to yourself, just until your sister catches up?" I always said yes. Then one evening, I knocked over a vase. The sound sent Celine into another episode, and in his panic, Father shoved me hard enough that I stumbled backward into the antique silver statue behind me. It tore straight through my back, into my lung, inches from my heart. I called out for my parents. "Stop performing," my mother snapped, not even looking my way. "Can't you see the state your sister is in?" "I did not do it on purpose," I whispered, but my voice had already gone too weak to carry. My father only spared me a glance of irritation. "Iris, are you satisfied now? Your sister has barely been stable these past few days, and you still found a way to set her off." The silver kept burning deeper with every heartbeat. I dragged my fingers weakly across the floor, leaving a thin streak of red behind me, and still no one turned around. By the time anyone thought to check on me, the room had already gone silent around my body.