...and with that, she strode away, not wanting to even look at the smug expression settling on his creased face. She never wanted to see him again.

End of that chapter. I sighed, flipping through all of the pages I had written. I had a few more chapters to write until I had completed my first novel.

I had always wanted to write, but I could never find the words or the inspiration. My descriptions were dull, my characters had no personality and the plot was a muddle.

I never knew that my sister would hold the key to my inspiration and determination. But how I gained it shouldn't have resulted in what happened to my sister.

She was called Florence. I always took advantage of her. I was three years older than her, and even though I wasn't close to her when we were growing up, I really did love her.

When she was a baby and a tot, I played with her and read her stories, but since the age of when she was seven and I ten, we grew apart, and our friendship died away. We argued about stupid things, that wasn't even important, and we never got on.

When I went to secondary school, my views on life changed, and going through puberty didn't exactly repair Florence's and my relationship - it just got worse.

I had to share a bedroom with her, and while I preferred to attempt to write stories and listen to music, she would interrupt me by turning on the TV or reading aloud.

I moved out when I was seventeen, and my sister and I hardly saw each other. It was only when mum got cancer, that we reunited, and became closer again. By that time, I was helping writing articles for the local newspaper, while Florence was at secondary school.

We weren't sure whether mum would be okay or not, but Florence and I had made a routine where I'd meet her after school and we'd walk to the hospital together.

We actually talked, and admitted things that we would never have done before, and our friendship grew stronger.

After a few weeks, everything was going great - mum was getting better, my job was going well and my sister and I had reconcoiled after years of tormenting each other.

However, there was something bad that was just waiting to happen. Florence and I were walking to the hosipital, what we thought would be one last time, because mum was coming out. It was a busy day, and the traffic was terrible.

We were chatting as we normally did, and Florence was telling me about an art competition, that she was considering to enter. We waited at the traffic lights, and we blindly walked across the road, when the cars stopped for us to pass.

But one of the cars didn't stop in time, and Florence was hit. I felt numb - I wouldn't believe what was happening. I remember my heart thumping against my chest, as Florence's lifeless body laid tangled on the floor.

The car had sped off, the driver not even bothered to help my sister. It was not until I saw the blood that I acted quickly. As I bent down to help her and check that she was breathing, I kept seeing her body smashing against the windscreen and tumbling onto the floor.

A passerby helped me get an ambulance, and Florence was taken to hospital. I went with her all the way. I couldn't feel anything, I couldn't cry.

When the doctors announced she was dead, the feeling of grief and sadness was so immense, I just collapsed on the floor. Mum and dad were crying their eyes out, and I just couldn't believe that my sister was gone from this earth.

I wished I had been more supportive and caring, and spent more time with her. I wanted to go back to the beginning, and change the way I had lived so I had spent more time with my sweet Florence. But I couldn't go back.

I had to stay in the present and look to the future. But I didn't want to. For weeks after her death, I just kept watching homemade videos of when we were small children, in the days when I played with her on Christmas Day when we went out to the beach.

I became a wreck. My life was over. The hatred I felt for the person who killed my sister was enormous. I wanted to kill them with my own hands and take their life away from them, like they had done for my sister. At the funeral, I was told by the priest to forgive those who had done this to my sister.

I wouldn't listen to him. I didn't believe he would have felt the pain of losing a loved one, and the heavy feeling of guilt on my shoulders every day for not saving my sister.

A few months later, I returned to work, and began writing my first novel. My sister had somehow helped me find the words to write, and continues to do so everyday. I know that she's dead, and she can never come back, but I know that she is with me everyday, helping me and giving me the will to live.

Before my sister died, I had told her about the novel I was trying to write, and she said it sounded like a great idea. The story is almost finished and waiting to be published, and on the first page, it says, Dedicated to my sister, Florence, who I love and adore, and always will do.