Blood is more viscous than water.

I remember this morning, my eyelashes fluttering as I awoke gently for the first time in days. It was then I became aware of an arm and leg slung across my body. Panicked, I slid my sleep-weary gaze to the side and my eyes collided with the sight of another's stare, stricken and wide-eyed. I relaxed. It was my youngest sister, six years my junior and in possession of a height six inches superior to mine. She had a larger hand up in my hair, stroking the tangles and curling her fingers in the ends.

(I was reminded of a time ten years ago, when I was in the reverse position; protecting her smaller frame against the cruel, cynical world)

"Good morning, Zarrah," her voice rang out softly, careful not to startle me. I turned over and stuffed my face in the hollow between her neck and her shoulder, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming through my curtains (note to self: get opaque drapes).

She curled her body against mine, attempting to nudge me awake with her elbows. "You're very pretty," she whispered and I hid my smile.