Sixty-Two

She gestures to the fruit salad, the doritos, the beer on the coffee table. My sister has been drinking since she hit her Teens. My father always thought it was me. My mother always took the hit for it. Clara loathed them more.
"You mean this mess? I know how much you hate it. I'll clean up, promise."
"You bitch. You know exactly what I mean. You told me to lie. You... I know it was you that made it look like dad tried to fake his death."
"What's wrong with you, Daniel?" She frowns — the way a person who really cares might —her voice is low, silent, filled with emotion. The textbook caring sister. "Are you drunk again?"
"I'm not drunk. You know that. You're a sick, twisted... thing."
"What's wrong with you?" She moves in for a hug. I freeze. She pats my back. Brushes unseen things from my shoulders. The loving sister. The caring sister. She whispers. "You can't outsmart me."
She moves back, looks intently at my jacket pocket, flicker her gaze to the window and then she winks.
She knows. Clara knows I have a tape recorder in my pocket. That there's a journalist and her crew perched out my window. The tiniest of spy cameras blinking red at the corner. She knows.
"I know things are hard. But we'll get through this, together. Okay?" She's using that tone again. The one that makes you feel so small and stupid. It's the kind that makes you question your sanity. "I know how you feel. I know everything. Come with me."
She's not concerned. Not one bit. She's warning me. I know everything. Stop trying to outsmart me. I'm always two steps ahead. I'm perfect Clara. I know everything.
I follow her. At her room she closes the windows. Hugs me again. Three seconds after the hug my body becomes itchy. I strip. Itching powder. I go at it like a dog with pruritus. Once I'm naked she takes my phone and the tape. When she's sure I have nothing on me that might incriminate her, I'm allowed into fresh clothes. The itching doesn't subside. While I'm naked she looks at my limp penis with sympathy. Her mouth opens. Once. Twice. And then she dismisses me with the back of her hand. Did you know your penis is... You know what? Nevermind. This worries me. Is it small? Does she think I can't satisfy my women?
Maybe I shouldn't let her get to me. Clara has this way she looks at you and you feel everything that she's saying without her actually saying a word. I always want to keep her happy. A happy Clara is a problem free life. I always seek her approval.I should get away from her
I stare at her. A long moment. I'm left wondering: what kind of a woman gives birth to such a evil thing? It's understandable why she continuously gets away with things: she impersonates the sweet, misunderstood girl quite exquisitely. The hard exterior doesn't remotely hint at the demonic, evil residing within.
"Explain yourself, twin." The shadows move over me presenting shades of fake tattoos.
"Let's clear the air," she says.
I wait.
"You're my twin. I love you. Very much. You shouldn't work so hard to make me your enemy." She's referring to me trying to set her up.
"I wasn't—"
"Shh." Her smile is radiant and constant as a salesgirl's. "Remember, Dan. You lied. Said you were raped. By Papa. He was in Canada that month. Away with Dr. Jones. I have this, Dan."
It's a video of Felicity, Skylar and me having sex. The second is a video of me going through the Jones' thrash. Retrieving used condoms with semen locked inside. The third video is the most damning. It's of me kneeing in the bathroom. The condom deep inside me, pouring semen into my bruised, bleeding butthole.
These coupled with prove of air ticket purchases means I could go to jail. Though I never opened a case, there's enough to prosecute me.
She tries to touch my shoulder. The caring sister. Again. I fling her off. Her arm flies back to her so hard that it almost snaps off. I want that. Want that very much.
She face masks with avocado each night. Her dark-dark skin is healthy, glowing. Natural. Her eyes curiously brown. When I was younger I mistook them for black. But they are brown, like a tree truck? I've never been good with words. Projecting all that healthy farm cow with really clean fur.
"You even hit me, Daniel." She keeps a straight face. I shouldn't be so surprised and offended. I've always known her as a ... Cunt.
"I didn't. You. You said I should. Last night. You said it was a way to discredit Aunt Dahab."
She looks me right in the eye. "You crazy? I never said that."
"You did. Last night. You said I should hit. You. Fist. Kick. Slap. Push you against the fridge."
"I didn't say that."
She waits for me to dispute this. I want to. God. I want to. The breeze coming through the window. Too harsh. An ambush. Can't Clara feel it too? My mouth is dry. The lips are dry. The eyes are dry. My face is dry. "I know you did. You know it too." My stupid voice breaks. My lower lip trembles. She smiles. I'm terrified. She knows. And loves it.
Perfect Clara seeks control. Balance. Power. She has it.
The flush in her face is familiar. Excitement. She has the upper hand. She allows the silence to hang. Like some meaningful sentiment. "No one will believe you."
She's right.
I want to say something clever. Something dramatic. Something that will render her speechless. Something she can't find a way around. Something she hasn't thought of. Like a dying, dehydrated fish my mouth moves. No sound escapes. She watches. A hawk. The lengthened curls of worry on the corners of my eyes make her smile. The pang of fear lingers.
"You need me by your side. You don't want me as an enemy." A reminder. Polite. True.
We had this conversation in the woods behind the house: I should hit her in the kitchen. Just attack her. There's a fucking camera in there. She's right. I do not need her as an enemy.
"I could go to the cops. Tell them everything. Back dad up. Lulu Barika will be on our side too."
"Go." A dare. She grins, tart with expectation. Brightening. Sitting down, she presses play on the stereo. Drake. Scorpion. She does most of her planning listening to him. He's a drive for her. An icon.
You don't get it. No worries. Neither do I.
A can of dread opens in my stomach. Leaves me drowsy. Even if the police believe us. There's no evidence to back any of our claims. I hit her. I have DID. I faked a rape. I lied about killing my father which makes me an attention seeker.
Papa faked his death. He slept with my girlfriend. He cheated on his wife.
What did Lulu Barika do?