In the Mirror: A Confessions Story

If It's Broken

The day that dad died, was the same day that I came to the realization that Landon is evil. When we were being questioned, he just sat there. He didn't tell them what dad did to us. He sat there silently rocking in the chair like nothing was wrong. They asked us all types of questions about our father, but I was the only one to answer. I wanted to scream. 

Were there any other instances where your father lashed out at you?
Yes...
Silence...

What happened earlier that day?
We ran out of cereal I think...
Silence...

When did your mom die?
When she gave birth to us... (when she gave birth to me)
Silence...

If I had been a year older when the incident happened, I would've been sent to jail; juvenile or even adult.  Ironically, father kept a copy of Just Mercy in the living room. I read parts of it before I was even old enough to understand what was going on. Considering how some of the charged people in the book were treated, I got lucky.

They took us to our auntie who welcomed us into her house. It was a big responsibility, but she was rich, single, and childless. Before the incident, I think, my dad was on the phone yelling at someone and bringing up mother. It had to be Aunt Steph but I never asked. It was normal for dad to randomly bring up mother's death in an argument. 

I snap back to reality and think about how dramatic I must look. Staring at the ceiling, going back to my broken childhood. I never really was sad when I thought about mother's death. We never saw her, so I assumed that some people just didn't have mothers. Landon and I never got along either. He stayed in his room most of the day, did school online, and only stepped outside to take out the trash. I, on the other hand, caught the brunt of dad's anger. I was the ragdoll, the test dummy, the one who took mom away. Call us dysfunctional, but I call it my reality.

I get up and check the hallways for any sign of Landon. He usually walks around early in the morning, talking to himself. The walls cry, chipped paint leaving chalky pools on the old carpet. Landon's shadow lurks for a bit on the adjacent wall and I flatten myself, listening to his incoherent mumbles.

"One, two, three... four, five... here?" Landon counts the stripes on the wallpaper and his shadow enlarges, stretching and molding into a beast as he gets closer. 

I move away from the wall and try to look casual as his flesh form comes into view. He looks at me and his ice-blue eyes send a shiver up my spine.

"Hey Dyl what is for breakfast?" Landon asks and starts to walk closer, dragging his hand along the wall and swinging one foot in front of the other as if he is on a balance beam. 

"Aunt Steph made pancakes and put them in the fridge," I reply coldly and fling my hand towards downstairs.

He cocks his head and pokes his lip out. 

"I don't want to eat cold pancakes," Landon whines and something inside of me snaps.

"For goodness sake could you please stop speaking like a five-year-old! GROW UP!" I yell and stomp away not quite knowing where I want to go. I walk into the bathroom, slamming the door then start sobbing.

When my mom died, I had to be the bigger person. It is unfair how Landon just gets to act like a two year old and no one bats an eye, but I simply exist and there is a problem. 

My hand slips to a strand of hair on my head and I pull it taught, getting relief from the tension. I pull and pull, testing the strand and snap, it breaks off taking my anger with it. I let the hair fall accompanied by a tear and look in the mirror. My blond hair looks thinner and thinner each week. My mother had curly blond hair, but I got my father's genes. Hopefully that was the only trait I inherited.

Reluctantly I lift a couple of front strands to examine the middle of my hair and the sight is unsettling. Patches of missing hair cover my head. I really would stop pulling if I could, but it is the only thing keeping me sane.

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I eventually come out of the bathroom and go into the kitchen. I open the fridge and find pre-cooked meals organized by meal. Landon has OCD and he has to have his food organized by meal, or he won't touch it. When we lived with father, Landon would nearly starve unless I organized his food. A lump forms in my throat and I get angry out of nowhere. Why is everything catered to him? 

I seethe and grab the egg carton out of the refrigerator before slamming the door shut. I prep the pan with butter and crack the eggs into it. The crack and sizzle of the cooking eggs settle my nerves and calm my temper. I move the pan off of the fire and an ember rises up from a fallen piece. It entrances me and I take a small part of my egg and consider throwing it into the flame. Better judgment prevents me from doing so and I turn off the fire. 

A feeling of loneliness comes over me. It doesn't hit me, it just creeps up as I stare into my plate. I sigh and catch a glimpse of Landon crossing the kitchen. I hear him open the fridge then a piercing shriek follows. I cover my ears and whip my head around in his direction. 

Rage washes over me and the next few seconds go in a blur. Next thing I know I am standing over Landon with a fork in my hand. I look at him covering his head and laying in fetal position. It reminds me of how he would cower when father was angry. I drop the fork and stammer back.

I'm just like father. I was always just like him. I have his face and his temper and his violence. I am a monster.

I scream at Landon and run upstairs into my room right before slamming it. I pick up a heavy book and hurl it towards the wall. The sound it makes does nothing to soothe my anger. 

Only fire will...

I run downstairs taking a piece of torn wallpaper with me. Landon is still rocking in front of the fridge but he flinches as I come near him. I grip the wallpaper in my hand and turn on the stove, not even thinking before touching a corner to the blue flame. The paper ignites, burning faster because of the paint. The paper bubbles before turning into red embers that crumble and fall to the floor like snow.

 Landon stops rocking back and forth and looks up at me frightened. I purposely ignore him and keep watching the paper burn even as it gets dangerously close to my fingertips. His movement in my peripheral vision infuriated me even more; I wanted to hurl the paper at him.

When it touches my finger I don't feel anything at first. A split second later, my finger burns and I drop the paper as a reflex, then follow it as it hits the ground. 

I don't yell out of surprise or gasp as a tiny flame arises from the wooden floor. I guess the fire had no power over me in that second. Something so destructive meant nothing in that instant. 

Then I heard Landon.

"Sissy why are you trying to burn the house down," he cried over and over. Each time he repeated I wanted the floor to burn even faster. 

Landon stood up and ran towards the phone but I beat him to it, holding it over his head. He is about two inches shorter, the only gene he inherited from father being his lack of height. I smile as the fire creeps over to the carpet. Landon stops trying to grab the phone and attempts to stomp out the fire instead. 

The only thing louder than the crackling of the fire is Landon's yelling.

"Sissy make it stop! Please," he cries repeatedly.

This is the only thing I have control over. And you can't take that away...