None of us are good people. I don't understand how we aren't in jail yet. As long as I can remember, my siblings and I were like this. My earliest memory is of Dom stealing a toy from a store. I remember being there and not saying a word. I didn't stop him, or even think to try. When I was six, I saw my parents scolding Chelsea for cheating. She was in third grade, and got suspended for two days. She told me that next time, she wouldn't get caught. I gave her a high five. Summer was the least normal. She killed the neighbor's dog with a fork when she was four. In kindergarten, Summer pushed a little boy into the street right in front of a car. He nearly died. She just smiled sweetly and said she didn't mean to.

I lie, all the time. I suppose you would call it pathological. It's just easier that way. You slip into a second skin that no one can penetrate. Safe from everything. I can't help it, it just happens. That's not an excuse, but I can't stop wondering if something's wrong with me. I am pretty screwed up though. I was diagnosed as bipolar when I was a sophomore in college. No one knows about it. I have manic episodes frequently, usually at least once a day. During these episodes, I display OCD tendencies, hear voices, and see visions. There's medication, but it gives me terrible migraines. So I lie. I tell the doctors that I take my pills, and I don't tell anyone else anything. Everyone's happy. Lying creates this perfect world in which I exist, where nothing can touch me, and I can hurt no one. My name is Jude Sinclair, and I am not a good person. I want to be, but I don't know how.