The Sisters' First

I don’t recall the death of our father even though I was in the room. The rest I remember with a great deal of clarity. The first thing I do remember from that night was staring at my hands, which were pressed flat against the bright white tablecloth excepting the tip of my finger, which rested on the handle of a butter knife. I lifted my gaze to find my sister, Ivana, breathing heavily through her mouth and her white dress covered in blood. She had a feral look in her eyes, a look I had never seen on her before, but it was, after all, her first murder.

Ivana took a deep breath and whispered, “It is your turn, sister.” At that, I turned my gaze toward our mother who was standing stock still with mouth agape. My heart began to palpitate, but not out of fear or hesitation, but out of exhilaration. I had for so long waited to silence this woman. I was tired of her cruelty.

I slowly pushed back my chair and rose. Even as I approached her I was still thinking of how exactly I would do the deed. Would I start with her cold heart or would I pick apart the wall I saw behind her eyes? .... I came to her, only inches. I whispered in her ear, "Mother, it is time." It came to me then. It had to be the eyes. I hated those eyes ...

(To Be Continued ...)