Part 2: As she lay bleeding on the floor with her artwork scattered in pieces, her sister leaned over and whispered, "Tell them she slipped."

I returned from the 24-hour print shop at 1:30 AM with six fresh, perfectly archival prints sealed inside a black garment bag to protect them from the damp night air.

The house was dark and silent. I crept up the carpeted stairs, keeping to the left side where the boards didn't creak, and slipped into my room. I placed the garment bag on the top shelf of my closet, locked my bedroom door from the inside, and finally slept for four fitful hours.

At 7:00 AM, the house woke up.

I could hear Natalie stomping down the hallway toward the bathroom, humming loudly, slamming the cabinet doors.

At 8:15 AM, I stepped out of my room carrying the black garment bag over my arm, wearing my dark green velvet dress—the one I’d bought with my own money from working at the art supply store.

Natalie was standing in the hallway outside her bedroom, wearing her Lululemon pullover, her wet hair wrapped in a white towel.

She froze when she saw the garment bag in my hands.

Her eyes narrowed. "What is that?"

"My artwork," I said, walking past her toward the stairs.

"I ripped those prints," she said, her voice dropping into that dangerous, quiet register. "I saw them in the trash."

"I had digital backups," I said, not slowing down. "I reprinted them last night."

I felt the shift in the air behind me before I heard her footsteps.

Natalie didn't just get mad when she lost control. She got violent.

"You arrogant little bitch," she spat, her hand reaching out and grabbing the strap of the garment bag, yanking it backward.

I spun around, gripping the bag with both hands. "Let go, Natalie!"

"Give it to me!" she yelled, her face contorting into that raw, ugly rage I had seen since I was seven years old. "You think you're better than me because some stupid arts committee gave you a ribbon?!"

"Let GO!" I shouted.

Downstairs, the kitchen door clicked open. My mother’s voice called up the stairwell: "Girls? What is that noise?"

Natalie didn't answer. She didn't care that Mom was downstairs. She knew Mom’s presence was a shield for her, not me.

She planted both feet, grabbed my shoulders with both palms, and shoved with every ounce of her five-foot-eleven athletic frame.

I didn't have time to catch myself.

Behind me was the decorative glass-paneled door that separated the upstairs hallway from the sunroom landing—a heavy, wood-framed door set with antique leaded glass panes that my father had restored two summers ago.

My shoulder hit the frame first.

Then my back hit the glass.

The sound was like a bomb going off in a small room. A sharp, deafening CRACK followed by the horrific, cascading roar of heavy glass shattering into thousands of jagged, knife-like shards.

My feet went out from under me.

I fell backward through the frame, landing hard on the oak floorboards of the sunroom landing.

A six-inch shard of leaded glass sliced straight through the sleeve of my velvet dress, tearing deep into the meat of my left forearm. Another piece caught the side of my neck, just below the jawline.

Warm blood hit the floorboards before I even realized I was hurt.

I lay there, stunned, the air knocked completely out of my lungs, staring up at the shattered wooden frame above me.

Natalie stood on the hallway side of the threshold.

She wasn't pale. She wasn't crying. She wasn't screaming for help.

She looked down at me, her chest heaving, her eyes darting from the blood pooling on the oak floor to the garment bag lying beneath my legs.