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Her words rattle in my head as I pour my morning coffee. Every time I play the conversation over, her insults deliver a fresh sting. Evidence form last night’s argument is still visible in my apartment. The glass is still scattered on the floor from the vase she hurled at my head. The picture of us on our four-year anniversary lay face down. As a 3rd year psychology student, I couldn’t resist analyzing her thoughts and emotions. She was not afraid to let me know when I was acting like her therapist instead of her boyfriend. Yet, last night’s argument was unlike any other. The look of white hatred she gave me is burned in my mind. I could not find a reason for her explosive behavior. As I tiptoed around the broken glass, I decide to give her a call. Even at our angriest, we never go more than a day without talking each other. I immediately hear her cheerful voice but it’s just her voicemail. It seems a little odd; she is always playfully scolding me about my phone never being charged because never has her phone gone straight to voicemail. I know I should back off and give her some space but I couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that something is wrong. Unsatisfied with my earlier analysis of the possible causes of her outburst, I ponder over my actions earlier that day. Only one event stood out. Yesterday was the day I met with my half sister, Karen for the first time. I always knew I was adopted and my adoptive parents always dulled my curiosity about my biological family with goods and distractions. It was not uncommon for me rowing up to get a new videogame or a trip to the movies when I asked about my biological family. Yet, I never resented them because along with all the games they bought me, came a lot of love and supp... ... middle of paper ... ...el room and rushed to the bathroom. Who is in here?” I shouted at Karen, without waiting for a response I kicked down the door and saw her. Her hands and feet were bound with rope. Duct tape covered her mouth. Her creamy skin was speckled with bruises and cuts. I threw my arms around her and the only words I could choke out were “Julia.” I quickly untied her and removed the tape, Julia somberly whispered “Karen.” The neurons in my brain fired and it all made sense. Karen must have hired someone to follow us and take pictures; then sent them to Julia. She took Julia. I didn’t want to leave Julia but I knew I couldn’t let Karen get away with this. I ran out of the bathroom but it was too late. Karen was gone. I plopped on the bed in defeat and a bottle rolled on to the ground. It was an orange prescription bottle. It was full of pills. The label read: Risperidone.

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