This Time, Don't Laugh While I'm Dying

My brother, Adrian Lupton, always says I'm the most boring person in the family. That's because every time he plays a prank on me, I always end up in tears. When he sticks chewing gum in my hair, I cry. When he pulls my chair away just as I'm about to sit down, I fall and cry, too. It leaves me with a fractured tailbone, and I spend two months lying face down in bed. But my parents always brush it off. They say he is just being playful and that I can't take a joke. And as his older sister, I'm supposed to be more understanding. Eventually, I stop crying. Even when Adrian smiles and offers me some food, I smile back. I have no idea that he has mixed peanut butter into it—the one thing I'm severely allergic to. After eating it, I return to my room. The moment I close the door, it feels as though someone is squeezing my throat shut. I can't breathe. Red hives spread across my body as I collapse onto the floor. My phone is lit up beside me. The last thing on the screen is my search: "How to stop throat swelling from peanut allergy". My consciousness slowly fades. In the next room, Adrian laughs while playing video games. Meanwhile, my parents are watching TV in the living room. No one in the house notices what is happening behind my closed door. No one realizes that I'm dying. If there is another life, I don't want to be the target of anyone's cruel pranks ever again. I just want to be loved for who I am, even if it's only once.