Like many lives, ours began in a hospital. The doctors were rushing around the room, grabbing needed objects and gizmos, the panicking father was being held back by nurses, and the mother was having a child. Maybe the doctors lied or maybe the machines were defective, but despite the promise of one baby girl, there were three.

Isabella came first, already equipped with a full head of soft black hair, ivory skin, and eyes so blue you could almost see the sun and clouds in them. He father almost fainted with relief, but the doctors called out that it wasn't over yet. Within seconds of Isabella's birth, Ivy appeared, perfectly identical to her sister.

Unable to contain his joy, their father leapt up and shouted, "Twins! Twins! They're twins!"

He ran out of the room, heading for the lobby where the patient's family members waited eagerly with worried expressions. He was oblivious to the doctors calling him back, deaf with the joy of newborn twins. He missed the birth of his third and final daughter, me. My birth posed a bit more of a problem. It wasn't harmful in any way, but it was time consuming. One minute after Ivy was born, I entered the world with the matching image of my two sisters.

"Triplets," the doctor handed us over to our mother, who cradled Ivy and Isabella and held me on her lap, "congratulations."

We might've been indistinguishable from each other, but by one minute, we were not triplets. Isabella and Ivy made that quite clear every time they called me a "one-minute mistake". They told me numerous times that our mother had twins and a girl, not triplets.

We started out as normal look-alikes. Our parents would dress us up in matching outfits and parade us around town like we were the cutest things to ever walk the Earth. We'd sit together in school, never be apart, and even practiced finishing each other's sentences. It wasn't until we were digging through old papers and found our birth certificates that we even knew about the one-minute mishap. Things took a turn for the worse after that day.

A week from our fifth birthday, Isabella and Ivy demanded that theirs and my party be on separate days. They claimed that only twins should be allowed to share birthdays and I was one minute too late to be one. Our parents said no, but Isabella and Ivy, being the spoiled rotten little girls they are, threw a tantrum so large that our parents had no choice but to move my party a week after theirs.

As the weeks went by, I grew more and more distant from them, but not by choice. They refused to let me sleep in their room and threatened to sleep outside until I was moved, saying that only twins should share a bedroom and there was no room for a one-minute mistake. They wouldn't let me talk to them at school and ignored me when they played board games or cards. When our parents made them let me join their game, they quit whatever it was they were doing and went to find something else to do.

Soon after, they forbade me to wear clothes that matched theirs. They whined and complained when our parents made us dress the same to take us out somewhere. When they realized our parents wouldn't compromise, they secretly brought a new set of clothes with them wherever we went and changed into them in the bathroom, chucking the old pair in a trash can and refusing to tell our parents where the clothes were. Our parents gave up and let them wear whatever they wanted. I could tell by the smirks and giggles they shot at me that they meant for this to happen. They wanted to exclude me. They wanted to force me to confess to the crime of not being one of them, of not having a double, and being a one-minute mistake.

Strangers would come to admire us and constantly ask us if we were triplets. Isabella and Ivy would grin and say, "No, we're twins. She came too late."

"By one minute!" I'd defend myself, but they wouldn't listen. One minute was too long for them.

There were other times where I'd catch them in their room or outside in the gardens, sitting together. They'd be talking in words that would be gibberish to anyone who got close enough to hear, but I knew better. Twins were sometimes blessed with the "twin language" that no one could decipher save for the twins themselves. Whenever I got too close to them during their twin talks, they'd stop and stare at me until I left, then resumed their conversation. Every so often, I'd sneak up on them and listen, but I'd only be able to make out one or two words. I was one minute too late to fully comprehend what they were saying. Occasionally, just to pour salt on the wounds, Isabella and Ivy would come to me and speak in their twin language. They'd laugh at my blank stare.

For years they'd torment me over the one-minute problem. They'd call me the one-minute mistake in front of crowds and people we knew. My parents would just tell me to quit whining about it and not to let them get to me.

I drew the line two weeks ago.

It was my sixteenth birthday party, a week from theirs, and they snuck the cake box away while no one was looking. They raked their fingers in the frosting, writing "one-minute mistake" deep into the cake. They replaced the box and broke out into laughter when it was opened in front of all the guests. My parents just told me to ignore it all, but I was sick of trying to cooperate with them.

Every time I looked at them, I could feel the rage and anger running through my blood. I wanted to lash out and hurt them, to yell at them, but I knew it would never work. I'd get in trouble for it, just adding on another victory for the self-proclaimed twins. I had to do something. Not just anything, no, but something where the effect would last a lifetime, something that would make all the years of mental torment and isolation worthwhile, and something I couldn't be caught for.

I thought. I thought more. Then, it came to me, simple as that.

It's common knowledge that even the closets of loved ones will fight over something, and that included Isabella and Ivy. I observed them for a few days and made mental notifications of the topics that set them off the most. Sure, they were quick to forgive each other, but I wasn't interested in tearing them apart, I was only interested in the argument. I also noticed, with much relief, that they had no problems fighting in public. They seemed to enjoy the attention their arguments brought from the complete strangers.

Whenever we went out in public, I'd casually bring up a subject that caused them to lose their tempers and fight about. I'd then put on a scared and innocent look as they argued, oblivious to the drawing crowds. I'd pick and pester at those little topics until the twins were fighting in public more often than they acted like best of friends. The trap has been set.

Early last week, I made a large pitcher of Ivy's favorite fruit punch. I scanned the kitchen to make sure no one was there, and pulled out a bottle of beer I had stashed under the sink. It wasn't hard to get. If you have money, you can get almost anything, no matter how illegal it might be. I pulled off the cap and drained the liquid into the punch, stirring and adding food coloring to hide the brown of the beer. I poured some of the drink into a cup and headed to Ivy's room.

Ivy was sitting on her bed, reading a magazine, isolating herself from Isabella because of the fight they had just hours before. She asked me what I wanted and I handed her the cup, telling her there was more in the kitchen if she wanted some. Use to being treated like a princess, she took the drink without question and chugged it down.

I left the room and walked to my room, pulling out an outfit that matched Ivy's. I already knew that Isabella was wearing the same green shirt and blue jeans. I quickly pulled them on and went to find Isabella. She smiled when she saw me walk into the living room, but her smile faded to a scowl when she realized I wasn't Ivy. Like her sister, she asked what I wanted and I told her I felt like getting ice-cream and if she would like to come with me. She brightened at the idea of a treat and said she would once she brushed her hair. As she headed for the bathroom, I turned to my parent's room.

I dug around under the bed and pulled out my father's handgun. I checked to see that the bullets were there and shoved it in my pocket, hiding it under my long shirt's fabric. When Isabella was ready, we headed outside. Before I closed the door behind me, I looked back to the kitchen area and smile when I saw Ivy pouring herself another cup of the fruit juice, the addiction kicking in. I shut the door and lead Isabella down the street.

I was surprised that Isabella didn't tell me to go back and change into an outfit that didn't match hers. Judging by the way she skipped and hummed, I'm sure it was because she was focused on the ice-cream she would soon have. I was amazed at her single-thought brain capacity.

Though Isabella could easily tell that I wasn't her precious twin, I knew by the glances and whispers that the people around us couldn't. I smile and giggled like Ivy would, glad that Isabella didn't seem to notice, her mind still on the promise of the frozen treat.

I brought Isabella around the most crowded street in the city, packed with strangers going about their day. Her smile vanished, replaced with confusion, and asked why we were here when the ice-cream shop was in the opposite direction. I didn't hesitate. I pulled the gun from my pocket, making sure I was distant enough to not get any blood on me, and pulled the trigger. I made sure the shot killed her instantly, because what kind of sister would I be if I let her suffer? Screams and shouts rose around the streets and I bolted away, praying that they'd notice the direction I was running in.

I burst through the front door and smiled when I saw the juice pitcher almost half empty. I swiped the gun on a dishrag to clear away the fingerprints, then brought it to Ivy's room, still wrapped in the cloth. Ivy was sitting on the floor, the glass in her hands, doodling in a notebook. She squinted at me, and then flinched when I tossed the gun at her. Her dazed, drunken instincts made her reach for the gun, and dot it's shiny surface with her fingerprints. I opened the window to her door and she looked at me with dull eyes, not fully comprehending what she was seeing. Afterwards, I tore off the outfit, put on a different set of clothes, and crawled into bed, making sure to mess up my hair first.

I waited a few minutes, and then smiled as I heard the knocking at the front door. When no one answered, I heard the door being kicked open and the sound of the police storming the house. When they came into the hallway, I sat up in bed, pretending to be half asleep. They came after me, but turned around when they saw Ivy, dressed exactly like the murderer in the street today, drunk, and holding a gun.

They questioned me, asking where I was and if I noticed anything going on between Ivy and Isabella that might cause one of them to take action. In the most innocent and fearful way I could, I mentioned their fights. They questioned the people on the streets and they, too, vouched for the bit of information. Ivy tried to protest the accusations the police were throwing at her, but her words were slurred from the drink and the cops noted down that she spiked her own juice with beer, which made her flip out and kill her sister after one of their bitter arguments.

The days went by and more and more evidence piled up against Ivy. Our parents cried and confessed that they have, in fact, seen the children arguing and ignoring each other. I was pleasantly surprised to hear that they told the cops that the twins would occasionally wear clothes that didn't match, signaling their hatred for each other. I inwardly smiled, knowing that they must have mistaken me for one of the twins, who have never gone a day without the matching outfits.

Just yesterday, Ivy was brought before the court of law and was charged guilty for her sister's murder. As they dragged her down the courthouse steps, she looked to me with a puzzled expression as if she still didn't understand how something like this could happen. As they loaded her in the police car, I looked at her through the window and gave her a dark smile. Her eyes widened and I mouthed the words, "one-minute mistake" to her through the glass. Before she could respond, they drove her away, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew it was me.