She was always prettier than me. Smarter than me. She was perfect.
Some people say that nobody's perfect, others that everybody is. I don't feel that way. They just say it to reassure each other, that it's either everyone or no-one. But it is not true.
The truth is that some of us are lucky. I have only met one. At night I sneak up on the rooftop. Her room lies in the wing of the mansion. As the mansion has the shape of a horseshoe, I get the perfect sight.
I see how she sits at her dressing table. Mahogany. It was mothers before, but as the oldest, she got it.
I see how she removes her makeup, like a mask. She doesn't need it, she looks perfect without it.
She looks herself in the mirror, and I wonder about what she's thinking about. I wouldn't know. I am not perfect, like her. I trace a finger down my jawline just like she is doing.
My sister.
