You’re sweating, and they know it. The courtroom air stings, almost frozen despite the choking fever of summer and the hoard of bodies cramming into the scarce benches usually deserted during rulings. So why are you sweating? The beating glares of your neighbors anchor you to your seat. Is that why? Or have you noticed only one of your friends bothered to show up, almost a ghost in the back of the crowd?

 Mom and dad sit in the first bench behind defense’s table - behind you - glistening eyes, strawberry rimmed, surrounded by puffy, swollen skin. They’d been fighting again last night. Your friends assure you it’s just what happens when parents lose a kid.

 The prosecutor buzzes to your right, shooting up when the judge enters the room. You know him because your parents know him. He would come over for dinner sometimes, play games with you, let you ride on his shoulders, but he always liked your sister better. Of course he did. Who didn’t?

 You rise on legs ready to collapse under you, still sweating, jurors starting to notice. You glance towards them, then regret it as you attempt to purge the jurors' perturbed expressions from your thoughts. They hate you. They don’t believe you. Fifteen to life if you were lucky, right? When have you ever been lucky?

 The judge starts speaking. Everyone sits down. Bits of her speech reach your ears even though you try not to listen, cruel words, twisting knives in your skull. Trial… manslaughter… verdict? Her tone is too excited, too eager. It’s the first time in years a case like this has been tried in this town. They could be put on the map.

 The room twists into an unholy silence.

 The foreman stands, patches of red spreading across his wrists as he scratches the skin in nervous fits, downcast gaze. “The jury finds the defendant not guilty.”

 A breath.

 Then another.

 You gulp air down like you’ve never truly tasted it. Life fills your lungs as the hoard erupts into rioting screams, demanding a different verdict or mourning your sister in wild wails fit for banshees. Or both. Your sister, who was never rude, who was smart but humble, who loved you so dearly. So perfect, so unlike yourself. You force down a grin. You’re not sweating anymore.

 Your friend hurries off, a messenger to the others who refused to attend. The jury is led out of the room, futility shielding their sullen faces from the rampage which would inevitably turn on them. A security officer walks you out as well, keeping a strangle hold on you until you make it out. She thinks you’re guilty.

 But the jury was right, you didn’t push her, your sister tripped off the bridge and gravity pulled her to the creek’s jagged stone teeth. And when you make it to the room you shared with her, you allow a smile to parade your face. Finally. The madness has ended, she is gone and can’t ever be anyone’s favorite. All because you didn’t get help as her blood steeped into the shallow water of the creek.