The Perfect Crime

Chapter 4: SUPERFICIAL

Do you see the waning light in my eyes?
Can you sense the hollowness behind my "rich" laughter?
Can't you tell that I am dying inside?
Can't you see that this is all a sham?
That my happiness is superficial?
★

TWENTY TWO YEARS AGO

ARCHER

If you asked a psychologist, they would probably tell you that pain is both a good thing and a bad thing. Yes, pain is good because it alerts you of infections and diseases so that you can get tested. Pain makes you cautious. But most of all pain makes you cry. Pain makes you limp around your house in circles because you are too scared to go in.

At ten years old, I deal with pain by drinking a healthy doze of my mother's vodka. I am pretty sure that I have consumed more alcohol than the average adult but I can't stop because when the bitter warm liquid flows down my neck and into the pits of my stomach, it calms me. It takes me to a world where my father's fists are like pillows touching my skin, where every taunt doesn't tear my heart into two but instead rolls off my back.

Everyone at school thinks that we are the happiest kids on the planet because we live in a mansion that deserves to be on a property magazine. They think that we eat food from a variety of cuisines if only that were true. They think that my parents are the best in the world because they carry out many charities and sometimes they bring treats for the class to share. I wish they could read between the lines. I  wish they could see that my mother, Abigail Finn is just an emotionless functional drunk and not the elegant woman they see on school games and parent teacher conferences.

I also wish they could see that my father, Marcos Finn is a beast who shows his love for us through his fists and through taunts instead of viewing him as merely a cheerful big burly man with greying black hair. To Marcos Finn, I am a silly excuse for a man who doesn't belong in his macho world. Marcos Finn has other talents though. He is good at naming his children for one. His penchant for ancient names is unmatched. Only a person who has had dinner with Jane Austen or Charles Dickens names their son Archilles and their daughter Alejandra. We shortened our names for fear of bullying. I go by Archer while my fourteen year old sister goes by Alea.

I look up at my stick thin sister then down at our entangled hands. She looks at me and forces a smile. I don't know why she keeps trying.  I can already tell that my sister is as unhappy as I am —if not worse. There is only one thing that Marcos Finn hates more than a weak boy and that's a girl.

The metal black gate comes into view and I sense my sister tremble. I understand Alea's fear. It is a tangible thing in the revered Finn residence.

"One more round?" She asks and I nod. We walk around the house, slower this time but it doesn't help. We soon stand at the gate.

Alea clutches the red straps of her school bag tighter while I clutch the warm handle of my new knife. This knife is my most prized possession. Out of all the gadgets, clothes and accessories I have, I value my knife the most because Alea gave it to me for my tenth birthday which is today but no one in my family is going to remember that and I have grown accustomed to that fact. I particularly like it's shape. It is long, slender and serrated.  The tip glimmers and I know just how Sleeping Beauty felt with the spinning needle.

Alea pushes the gate open and we painfully limp forward. Alea hobbles dangerously as we walk and she almost falls, threatening to take me with her. I know that she is weak. She hasn't eaten in two days because my father locked her in the basement. I am pissed at Alea because she took my punishment and now she can barely walk. She has lost a lot of weight and she looks very tired.