The arc of light along the inside of my glasses forces me to confront my own dark eyes as I kneel down by my sister’s bed. She is curled in on herself, tattered blankets tucked under her body. When we were young, strangers often mistook us for twins. We have the same rumpled hair, though hers is now knotted and sweat-pressed against her forehead. She stares at the photo-littered wall of her childhood room. Her eyes, so like my own, refuse to seek me out. I raise myself up to the edge of the warm bed and carefully pull my sister’s hands from under the pillow. She does not resist. My fingers caress the white bandages on her wrists. It is another feature we now share, in spite of my protection.
