FORTY-One

Daniel Addass
The blank curtain of sleep ebbs away, introducing me to day again. I spring to life immediately. Shower. Check. Brush teeth. Check. Make breakfast for twin sister. Check. Check.
Clara is still recovering, I try to appreciate the fact that her lazy ass isn't on the couch most nights. Just waiting. Eyes judging. But I can't enjoy it because guilt now fills me.
I miss her I realise. Quite mornings like these remind me of summers in past years, when Papa would put on the Bafana Bafana yellow and green Jersey. When he was younger, he'd been a very promising midfielder once: but he broke his leg at eighteen. Draining his career.
On such days, he'd gather Clara and I in the backyard, he'd landscaped it so it resembled a soccer stadium. He'd be the goalkeeper and Clara and I would play against each other for his smile. His approval. His attention. His affection. And that's only the As.
I always won.
That's why Clara works so hard to appease him. To get him to say: I'm proud of you. Something all kids want to hear. Something all kids should hear.
"Dammit, Kadre. You might want to try to kick the ball," he'd spit.
She'd smile. Embarrassed. The same way she always did when she got something wrong. When she disappointed him. Which was often.
"I'm sorry Papa."
"Will you just stop apologising and just kick the damn ball next time?"
She'd nod. "Yes Papa."
We'd play. She'd lose again. Papa would ask: "Why don't you just go in the house and cook like your mother."
Clara would apologise. Try harder. Lose still.
He'd strip off his Jersey, muttering, "You play like such a girl." As he went.
I sigh. Take her breakfast to her. She's still under her covers. There's a knock at the front door. I place Clara's tray down and slither through the curvy hallways. It's Okoh. Here for Clara.
I go back to her room, alert her, "Okoh's here to see you."
"Why? I don't want to see anyone. Especially Okoh."
I look at her...hard. When she feels my gaze, hers snaps to my face. Eyes flashing flames. Mine are fireworkers. Watery. Cold. "But she's your friend."
She groans and pulls the duvet over her. "Tell her I'm so sick, I'm not allowed visitors."
I don't blink, time freezes. Shock. "She'll know I'm lying."
Clara chuckles, but there's no life in her voice. "Lips slip. Ships sink."
"Fine," I narrow my eyes at her. "I'll get rid of her. If she knew, she wouldn't try so hard."
When I've slipped by to the front door again, for authenticity, I twist my face to disgust. Wave a hand in front of my nose as though I smell something awful. "She's in the toilet. She can stay a long time. You'll be late for school."
"You're right — How is she?"
Bitchy.
"Getting better."
I return to the bedroom, a dead weight in my stomach.
"She's gone."
She groans and covers her face with the pillow.
"I'm developing a theory."
"What?"
"It wasn't Papa we buried."
"What in the world made you think of that?"
"First, the head and hands are missing. There are two reasons someone wouldn't want these items found."
Not sure items is the best word here.
"Are you ever gonna get to the point?"
"There are two ways to identify someone: fingerprints and dental records."
She rolls to her back. This is when I see the big kitchen knife on the headboard. I get a little spooked because no one can see a lunatic's hand so close to the knife and not worry that you'll be handed your guts soon.
"Are you saying that someone could be me?"
I swallow. Is it just me or did her fingers inches closer to the knife handle?
"I love you," I say. "No matter what."
"So you think I'm involved?"
"No matter what," I remind her.
She eats. I help. It looks like swallowing hurts too. A pang of guilt stabs me. I'm responsible. Shouldn't have wasted time. Should've took her to the hospital earlier.
"Daniel," it's a warning.
"No not you." I say, eying her hands, flickering my gaze to the knife. "Just someone close, like a family member. What if we buried someone else. What if it wasn't Papa we—"
"Hold on," she says, struggling to her footing. "Help me to the bathroom."
I do. Once the door has shut, I race back to her bedroom, take the knife and push it under the bed. A guy can't be too careful.