I WAS ERASED BY MY OWN SISTER
PART 4
The days leading up to Nneka’s wedding were supposed to be filled with joy, laughter, and final preparations. But Ngozi had other plans—plans so dark, so twisted, that no one could have ever imagined them.
Ngozi had spent weeks studying Nneka’s every move—her routines, her habits, even the way she spoke. She had memorized the sound of her laughter, the way she brushed her hair, the little gestures she made when she was nervous.
Now, it was time to become her.
Three nights before the wedding, Ngozi invited Nneka out for a quiet sisterly dinner—just the two of them, she said, to celebrate their last days as single women.
Nneka, ever trusting, agreed.
They went to a secluded restaurant, where Ngozi had already bribed the staff to ignore anything unusual. She ordered Nneka’s favorite wine—spiked with a sedative.
"To us," Ngozi said, raising her glass with a smile.
Nneka clinked her glass, unaware that her last moments of freedom were slipping away.
Within minutes, Nneka’s vision blurred.
"I… I don’t feel so good," she slurred, her head drooping.
Ngozi caught her before she could collapse.
"Shhh, sis. Just sleep," she whispered, stroking her sister’s hair like a predator soothing its prey.
Ngozi took Nneka to a rented car, where she had everything prepared—a syringe filled with a powerful drug that induced hallucinations, paranoia, and mental instability.
She rolled up Nneka’s sleeve and injected her.
"By the time they find you," Ngozi murmured, "no one will believe a word you say."
Then, she drove to a remote psychiatric hospital—one where no one asked too many questions.
She checked Nneka in under a fake name, spinning a story about her "sister’s" sudden mental breakdown.
"She’s been hearing voices," Ngozi lied, her face a mask of concern. "She keeps saying she’s someone else. Please, help her."
The doctors nodded sympathetically. They had seen cases like this before.
And just like that, Nneka disappeared.
Ngozi returned home—but not as herself.
She cut and styled her hair exactly like Nneka’s. She wore Nneka’s clothes, her perfume, even practiced her voice in front of the mirror.
When Emeka called, worried about Nneka’s sudden absence, Ngozi answered in her sister’s voice.
"I just needed some space, baby. I’ll be back soon."
Emeka, though uneasy, believed her.
The next morning, Ngozi staged her own "death."
She left Nneka’s car by a river, along with a suicide note in her handwriting:
"I can’t take it anymore. The guilt is too much. Forgive me."
Then, she scattered some of her own belongings—a scarf, a shoe—near the water’s edge.
When the police arrived, they declared it a tragic suicide.
Nneka’s parents collapsed in grief. Emeka was devastated.
But no one questioned why "Nneka" seemed so… unaffected.
With Ngozi now living as Nneka, the wedding preparations continued.
Emeka noticed something was off—the way "Nneka" suddenly hated foods she used to love, the way she flinched when he touched her in ways only the real Nneka would enjoy.
But every time he questioned her, Ngozi would burst into tears.
"I’m just grieving my sister! How can you be so cruel?"
Emeka, racked with guilt, would immediately apologize.
"I’m sorry, baby. I’m just worried about you."
Ngozi would smile through her fake tears, knowing she had won.
Meanwhile, the real Nneka woke up in a cold, sterile room.
She screamed for help, but the nurses only shook their heads.
"Another episode," they muttered.
She tried to explain—"I’m Nneka! My sister did this to me!"*—but the drugs made her words slur, her thoughts scatter.
The doctors diagnosed her as severely delusional.
And as the days passed, even Nneka began to doubt herself.
Was she really Nneka? Or was that just another lies her broken mind had created? *
On the morning of the wedding, Ngozi stood in front of the mirror, admiring herself in Nneka’s wedding dress.
She smiled—a cold, victorious smile.
She had won.
Nneka was gone.
Emeka was hers.
The life she had always wanted was finally within reach.
But deep in the shadows of the psychiatric hospital, the real Nneka clenched her fists.
Because somewhere beneath the drugs, the confusion, the despair…
A fire still burned.
And one day, she would make Ngozi pay.
To Be Continued…