Fifty-Three

Clara Addas



The girl in the mirror frowns at me. She's struggling to understand my sudden somber tone.
We sit silently, looking into each other's eyes — trying to read each other's thoughts.
She smirks. "Embrace this side of you. I like it."
Her words hover over us for a moment.
"Go on," she probes.
I take a breath and continue,
"The good thing about having Daniel as a brother is that he's quite easy to manipulate. He's currently confessing to a murder I orchestrated. He had nothing to do with it even though he believes I did it for him.
He's weak.
I can get anyone to do my bidding, not just Daniel. He's actually the weaker twin between the two of us. With him I've long learned that he likes being needed, being important. My mother was right. I prime him.
A few random things people don't know about me, just off the top of my head:
1) I am a seasoned, experienced, natural liar. You've spent time with me and yet you believed I'm the weak, whiny girl who does all good and puts family first. That's some crazy bullshit.
2) I wasn't at boarding school for those two years. I was actually at the mental institution (I know. I know. Two years is a bloody long time.)
3) I really did put my mother in a mental institution. This, I will discuss at length. So here we go, sit back, relax. It's going to be one hellavu ride.
Let's get started shall we?
Yes I was in a mental hospital but no, I do not suffer from Multiple Personality Disorder and neither does Daniel. Everything I've ever done, I've been myself.
How did I manage to get Dr. Jones to wrongfully diagnose me and my brother?
This is quite exciting. I've been wanting to show off my manipulation skills since the first time we met.
This dates back to three years ago. My father was a terrible husband and the worst father a child can have.
January seven. 4:15. Monday.
Three years ago:
(There's a simple reason why I remember this day, the exact time and weather. It is written in my diary. The one I keep buried somewhere in the forest. The only thing that can incriminate me in all the crimes I've committed.)
"I made some muffins," Mama said. She liked to bake on most days (didn't make her any better at it). Daniel and I were wrestling each other on the floor. Today he was pretending to be The Undertaker (who wouldn't want to be the dead man?) and I was pretending to be Roman Reeves (Hmm... Those muscles. His lips. Grrrr.)
Mama shouted over our bickering, calling us to the table with no luck. Between Daniel and me, none of us wanted to let go first and be deemed the loser. Another larger part was because we seriously didn't want to eat those damn muffins.
Papa walked through the door just then. Daniel released my arm just as fast as I ripped my hands from his neck. We fumbled, in a haste, trying to put the Sofa's back in their right places. Papa noticed these things. An inch off the right mark earned Mama a fist. He always looked for something wrong.
"Where's my beer?" he asked Mama.
She smiled, nervous, and looked around in alarm. He hung his gun belt and took off his work jacket. He wore this black fur jacket everyday it rained and he never left his house without his gun.
Mama hugged him but he didn't return it. These were the clues I caught in retrospect; ever since the marriage Mama had gotten fat. With every added pound, Papa loathed her more. From outside it was a perfect marriage. Their home was her prison. The love he'd had for her had long died. While she surrendered to his caress, he no longer spoke her name with a lover's softness. The battered face. The bashed in eye. The crooked nose. The flowers of pain hidden under her clothes. The fractured ribs. That was what she got for her tireless patience, for her undying love, for her forgiveness. There were no doctors. He'd grovel until she cooked the eggs wrong again, until she missed a spot on the floor. He knew she'd never leave. He'd made her dependent on him. He made her break up with her friends, her family was allowed 'supervised visits', she had not a cent to her name, he'd made her quit her job. And he always reminded her(every time she threatened to leave) that the only way she was ever going to leave him or his house was through a body bag. And I think Mama knew as well as I did that Papa meant every word.
"Where's my beer, Ahd?" Her name sounded like a cuss on his lips.
"Uh... In the fridge."
"So it's supposed to come by itself to me?"
She ran faster than the speed of light into the kitchen and came back with a Castle. He took one sip, grimaced and complained the beer wasn't cold enough. The rage consumed him. He started screaming, she started crying, he seethed.
The back of his hand hit the side of her face and she fell with the force of it. She lay on the floor, blood seeping from her nose. Daniel was still. The look in his eyes said it all, if Papa wasn't so powerful he'd do something about the abuse. It was killing him to watch hopeless as his mother struggled in pain.
Papa's eyes lit up with a zing of delight the harder his fists were, it was a thrill he couldn't get any other way.
I felt Daniel stiffened next to me. I noticed the changes immediately: the open, friendly smile he'd graced Mama with gave way to a sneer, the warmth in his complicated eyes altered to a brooding resentment that was instantly disturbing. There was a dangerous edge to Daniel now.
"Daniel?" I whispered in blank astonishment. He knew better than to interfere. Papa would beat him half to death, and Mama too.
A feeling of unease spread through the room and instinctively I moved back to hold Daniel's shaking hand. He always got like this. Daniel can't stand seeing people hurt even if those people are strangers. He cries at the sight of blood. I had to threaten my life for him to keep it together when the police first came to our house. I knew they'd suspect him just because he wasn't crying, grieving right.
Daniel cringed at my touch and took a step towards Papa. I threw myself in front of Mama. Papa wouldn't have the guts to hit me. But if Daniel got involved...
"Move you cockroach brat," Papa spat at me. He liked making references to my dark tone. If he wasn't darker than me I'd have been offended.
This didn't faze me. I didn't even look at him. I sat on the floor and took Mama into my arms. She was bleeding somewhere on her face. I wasn't sure where the blood was coming from yet.
"Get me the first aid kit, some warm water and a towel," I told Daniel.
"Is she still breathing?" He asked.
"Go," I screamed at him. "Can't we call the doctor, Papa? Please, please."
"Call them and expect a bullet through your ape eyes. Can't you see the fucking slut is faking it? T'was just a slap, maybe two. Nothing life threatening."
Daniel was back with a bowl of warm water and we proceeded to clean Mama up. Her nose was bleeding but not broken. By the time we were done, her lips were twice their size, her right eye could barely open without uncontrollable tears streaming out.
Papa was sipping his beer, sitting leisurely on the love seat, watching a match between Barcelona and Manchester United, screaming into the screen. Telling this player to do that. Shouting profiencies at the referee.
"I'm going to kill him," Daniel hissed. He was trembling again
I snatched his hand when he was about to get up. "Please don't. You'll make things worse for your mother. You know how he gets when you interfere."
"I won't hurt him. I'll get rid of him... permanently."
"No, you won't," I said under my breath, glaring at him before continuing. "You won't ruin your future over Papa. He's so not worth it. Now sit."
He struggled against my hold.
"Daniel, I said sit. Sit!"
He sighed in defeat and mumbled under his breath but obeyed me.
After the match Papa received a phone call. He surveyed the room. Mama was sleeping it off. Daniel and I were doing homework on the floor. Papa liked checking if we were getting it right. You had to, if not, the belt would connect with your butt.
He took the call to the bathroom. When he came back he finished his beer, grabbed his keys and said he was going for a walk. At six in the evening? When the sun had long set. The scene was so suspect I could taste the deceit.
I followed him. There was no chance of him spotting me. In all black, I resembled the darkness laced with fog around him.
At the door to detective Jones' house, he was greeted by a woman whose brown hair set in a lose bun with a small portion that flopped in her eyes and her yoga pants left little to the imagination. They hugged briefly. Surveyed the lawn and closed the door.
Wooden behind a tree, my world collapsed. My father was cheating on my mother. There was no mistaking the excitement in her laugh, the tender way he rested his hand at the small of her back and guided her inside.
When the light in one of the windows upstairs dimmed, I knew I was safe to enter the house. Detective Jones must be doing a night shit tonight, I thought. I tiptoed (police-style) over the half-dead grass to the porch first step and sneaked into the house. The front door was unlocked. Following the sounds of giggling and soft voices led me to a bedroom upstairs. I took advantage of the situation. Making short videos. Taking pictures. Once I had enough damning evidence I jogged home with a plan forming in mind.
With this ammunition in hand I managed to get Dr. Jones to lie to her husband about me being one of her patients. How I got her to falsify medical records Aunt Dahab could believe, and with her help, I got my mother admitted to that place.