Sixty

Clara Addas





The girl in the mirror stares back at me, her dark eyes in the shadows, menacing. She skips away, with blinding speed, instantly out of sight, only to appear in the center of the same mirror as before.
Now she laughs bitterly.
It is still me, I barely recognise myself, more free than I've ever been.
Once the laughter has died down, I continue:
"I think we started off on the wrong footing.
Building a relationship on lies only invites trouble and problems... Lots of problems.
Now though I'd rather focus on the truth. The honest truth. First of all, I'm a liar. I lie even when there's no need. Like that one time I stole Mama's earrings and wore them to school. They were real diamonds. Long story short, someone stole them, I denied ever seeing them. Lulu Barika took the blame.
Just so you know. I still don't get it. Why do women wear jewellery. It's a waste of money. Earrings don't really bring out your eyes, nor does the necklace compliment your skin/eyes whatever bullshit your friends feed you.
Make-up. I understand. It's for girls like me. Ugly girls. Now when I say I'm ugly I don't mean it in the way most teens in romance novels mean it. The I'm-ugly-but-in-actual-fact-I'm-megazine-cover-beautiful. Phew. That was quite a mouthful.
When I say I'm ugly, I really mean I'm an ugly cunt. When I say I'm fat. I'm fat. Not chubby. Not cute, you know like those chubby, cute babies. I'm just fat and ugly. Its really that simple. I'm not looking for sympathy.
How did I know and come to accept my ugliness. Well, it started when I was a baby. I knew something was wrong when some white woman with pale-pale cheeks would look at me, get shocked and cringe into their husband's armpits but when they saw other kids, they'd smile and bend over cooing. Oh My God, you're so cute. How old are you? Where's mommy? What grade are you in?
I never got that luxury. Once, I was actually cussed at.
Everybody plays with chubby, cute babies but nobody feels particularly friendly towards fat, black-black ugly babies.
I tried to clean up when I hit adolescent. I'd buy expensive make-up. Paint my face. Nothing worked. I always turned out worse than before. When I realised there was nothing more I could do, it was time to accept. I'm ugly. I'm fat. I'm not depressed nor distressed by it.
To prove it, I'll let you in on a little secret, no guy has ever just walked up to me and you know, asked me out. The two guys that wanted to go out with me were Stevin, the boy with questionable hygiene from school and that male nurse who is more drawn to my virginity than my personality.
No man has ever said I'm beautiful other than my father. My lying father. He said he'd always be there for me. He was willing to leave nineteen years worth of memories and play happy family with another child.
I honestly thought I'd kill him. Hide his body in the fridge down at the basement but that wouldn't make him suffer.
So what actually happened that day? Did I really walk in on my father fucking Daniel's satanic girlfriend? I most certainly did.
But it wasn't at the house, the main house. (I lied about that).
It was actually at the guest house some five minutes away. My father didn't see me. I scooped up their clothes, pocketed the cellphones, locked them in the house.
Papa got these smart doors (doors manufactured specifically for cheating spouses). They use face recognition or finger prints. Of course he inserted the doors so he could cheat on my mother without her ever finding out. Only his wide-eyed, ugly face could open the door along with his wrinkled, hairy fingers.
I'd ask for, let's say, three thousand rand for a pair of shoes. Papa would give me the money, I'd buy these cheap shoes that saved me thousands and peeled off the second I walked on the rain with them.
Over the course of two years I managed to save enough to hire Big Joe (don't know his real name). Yes, it took two years of careful planning to weave everything together.
Big Joe is a real gangsta. One of those tall, — here's that word again — fat guys with so many tattoos not a single patch of skin shows. He's usually half-naked in the hot tub surrounded by these skinny, petite women in bikini sets. Mafia movie cliché.
For starters, there's a saltwater swimming pool in his living room. Tucked away in a quiet cul-de-sac, Joe's house provides the serenity of the ultimate man cave. Big Joe provides services with limited questions and guaranteed nondisclosure.
When I came home that Wednesday afternoon to my father and Samantha. I knew it was time. With a quick text to Big Joe, he was at my house within minutes. While my father got rid of his seed inside Samantha, Joe and his boys were breaking into the security system. It took them less than ten minutes to change the lock requirements to my fingerprints.
I locked my father and his bitch at the house.
A step by step guide reads as follows:

Step one: Study your father intently. How long he takes with his young mistress. When they do it. Wednesdays and Sundays. (In case you were wondering.)
This is very important. You need to know how much time Big Joe has to change the locks. Shouldn't get caught. You're Perfect Clara. You never slip up. You never make a mistake.
Step one part two: Stock the kitchen. Refill the fridge. There has to be enough food for dad and his mistress. They shouldn't dare starve. You don't want them to die because then the whole purpose of the mission will fail. But you never fail. You're perfect Clara. You don't mess up. You take your time. You plan. You're careful. You're brilliant. Clever. You always win.
In fact you've already won. Yeah, that's the mentality.
Don't forget to throw away all the unused condoms. They are lovers. They are stupid. They are horny stupid lovers. They won't be able to resist the passion. Soon they'll get comfortable. Fuck carelessly. Two bitch dogs in heat.
Your plan is simple. Your father has to impregnate his mistress. A seventeen year old mistress. A kid. This is crucial. So you steal Samantha's purse days before. You throw away her birth control pills, replace them with Conceive Easy (fertility pills). Because you're brilliant Clara you think of everything.
In the fridge there's bottled water. You know Joe. A gangsta that has connections is in your payroll. You ask him to organise someone who can open and reseal bottles so that there's no evidence they were ever opened. You slip ( Nature Bound Pure Horny Goat Weed). You're brilliant Clara you think of everything.
Because you know your father doesn't drink tap water. You know he won't drink the coke in the fridge. He'll make (halal) healthy juices. He's a control freak. A religious — hypocritical — zealot. He can't help himself. He'll force his young mistress into drinking the spiked juice and now they're really just two dumb horny baboons.
You know man. You study people. You know everything. You're perfect Clara.
You also know that two "in love" fools will want to make the most of this time. What man doesn't dream (because, let's face it, we all do...) of being locked in a house with his young mistress whose tits sit firm in her chest unlike that hag you have as a wife whose boobs (Mistress tits. Wife, breasts) fall victim to gravity. A wife's breast are now... Well, breasts(which is code for shaggy). They no longer serve as your playground but as flabby milk supply for your kids. (She really shouldn't have had that third kid . You specifically told her. You want two kids. The dumb bitch went on and got herself pregnant. Now you have an extra mouth to feed. You pay the bills while she watches TV all day.
You feed her. She's like a pet.
A lazy, fat pet, and now it's all about the kids. Clara got an A in mathematics. Unlike her. We should get her a tutor. If she's aiming for Harvard she should get A+. Honey, Daniel needs a new pair of socks. He lost another pair in soccer practice today. Lulu Barika took the job at the hospital. I guess, she's really not returning to university again this year.)
But then you find yourself another pet. Young and exciting. She brings out the kid in you. The adrenaline junkie. The version of you you've long tucked behind the good husband hat. The super dad hat.
Well fuck you Papa. Damn you and your dumb bimbo to hell and back. You will pay for the hurt you caused Mama. For the embarrassment and shame the divorce would've brought to the family. For making another baby girl who'll now replace me. You'll call her princess, sweetheart, honey. All the endearments you reserved only for me. You're my father. You're married to my mother. We're a family. We will remain a family.
Step two: Make daddy replace the windows. New windows. Sound proof.
This is very important. You have to be careful. When the police go to knock at the hideout they shouldn't spot any movements. It must appear as if no one is inside.
Side note: Mission accomplished. The stupid police are so lame. Didn't suspect a thing. Brilliant, Clara. You're Perfect Clara. You did good. Had them fooled.
Step three: Once the national media is focusing on Daniel (who's confessing) bring Big Joe back to reset the lock so that dad and his young mistress (she's seventeen for fucks sake. Seventeen. The same age as me) can escape.
You're a Perfectionist. You know that. He's a hypocrite. He lectures about good and evil. About right and wrong. He's fucking your brother's leftovers.
The second he's free, he's going to the police station. Follow him there. You have to make sure he does everything according to the script.
Step four: (under intense camouflage). Go back to the guest house to plant evidence. The police will be here soon. You need to sprinkle red roses. Scented candles. Strawberries. The ideal romantic scene.
Not the kidnapped, locked against my will at the guest house scene. Because you're perfect Clara you think of everything. You're gonna tell a story. A story of two lovers who just wanted alone time. Lovers who planned a murder. Lovers who killed a man. Lovers that faked a murder for insurance purposes.
Of course you're Clara so you don't leave any room for plot holes. You're brilliant Clara, you think of everything. So you know that none of this would make sense so you think of
Step five: (which is really the first step before the first step). Precisely two years ago. I thought of this brilliant plan. What if you get your father arrested. Make him pay for wanting to destroy your family. For wanting to leave his children. What kind of father leaves his unemployed wife with two high maintenance teenagers?
The kind of father that deserves to be taught a lesson. Oh... Please don't bullshit me by offering some half felt sympathy and crappy solutions.
The girl in the Mirror: Your mother would've found a perfect man. Well not perfect but perfect for her. A good man.
Me: What are the chances that said good man would be a millionaire.
Mirror Girl: But money is not everything. Don't you want your mother to be happy.
Me: What kid doesn't want that? But I also want my current lifestyle.
Mirror Girl: Is that why you locked your father away. Framed him? Made it look like he'd faked his own death?
I don't know if you're expecting me to feel guilty but I'm a terrible person who'll do whatever it takes to keep my current lifestyle and avoid being a cliché. Another product of divorce. Another classic tale of a mother who couldn't keep her husband. Another kid who gets to see her father once a year. I refuse to be that kid. I'd rather send my father to prison. Where I can see him whenever I want. Where I control him. My father, like a little boy, needs to be watched over. Kept an eye on.
I'm Clara. I've thought of a way out too.
But first let's backtrack before I tell you how I can get Papa out of this mess to step five.
So step five... Convince your father to invest in this lucrative business. You know he's a smart businessman. He triple checks everything so you know everything should look legit.
Once he invests make his investment just... Disappear. Like it wasn't there in the first place. Just poof. Like smoke. Gone.
When the money disappears it's the same month your father fakes his death for insurance payouts. Brilliant isn't it?
Don't compliment me yet. You haven't seen my genius yet.