Sick

On the day of my eighteenth birthday celebration, my brother stormed in and smashed it up. “Cousin is hospitalized with severe depression because of you. How can you still have the nerve to throw a birthday party?” My childhood friend stopped me from arguing with my brother, looking at me with disgust. “He's just stating the facts. Can't you even hear the truth anymore?” They had always believed I bullied my cousin at school, even though she had no parents, and that was what drove her into severe depression. But her severe depression was fake. She was only pretending to be pitiful so she could take everything from me. Later, when my cousin was discharged, my brother persuaded our parents to make me move into the storage room so I couldn't hurt her again. The storage room caught fire, and I burned to death. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the year my cousin claimed she was depressed. When she held up a diagnosis and wept to the family, sneaking me a provocative look, I slapped her twice. Then I smacked my bipolar disorder report against her face. “Sorry, Sis. I have bipolar disorder, so I'm a little irritable. I hope you'll bear with me.”