You Are Normal, Everything Is Normal, She isn't

You Are Normal, Everything Is normal, She Isn’t

Trigger warning: Mention of sexual abuse, physical violence, and mental health

Frida had gone to the store by the time you woke up, her perfect little handwriting tells you she had gone grocery shopping. The bedsheet is touching your body in an uncomfortable way, you try to fix it, again, and again. In a rage, you rip off the sheet, stabbing it with the knife from the kitchen you chop everything with.

You check your clock, eight oh seven.

You were supposed to brush your teeth 2 minutes ago, and because you spent way too much time stabbing her new sheet, you are off track. It’s okay, you’ll just eat quicker. Perhaps if you have cereal instead of scrambled eggs, you will get back your time.

You use an electric toothbrush, it buzzes and vibrates at your command. How satisfying it must be to stick it down someone’s throat, and watch them scream. No, you mustn’t think that way. But her dad had no problem doing that. You are wasting time again. The buzzing has long since stopped.

The sugary taste of cereal reminds you of childhood, when your mom was still there. She was happy. Because her dad wasn’t there. But it’s okay, you have her daughter under your roof, and if she tries anything, she will regret it. You think as you swallow another hefty spoonful of cereal.

Stop it, you psychopath.

But it’s not that easy, isn’t it? To control your brain not to think of something, but in reality, by thinking about controlling it, you think about it. It’s all so complicated, spinning around and around and around, never making progress, just getting dizzy.

But if you do kill her, what’s your motive? Well for one, her dad raped your mom. Which is reason enough. And what did your mom decide to do? Obviously adopt the orphaned Frida, and die the moment you went off to college, because of HIV, because of her dad. Poor little perfect, angel-faced Frida then had to live with you. Poor little angel-faced Frida whose face haunts your dreams.

She is everywhere, following your footsteps, clouding your brain.

Tap, tap, tap. The spoon on your hand has to be tapped three times before you put it in the dishwasher. You don’t fight it, you can’t fight it.

You wash your spoon and bowl, hands almost grazing against the knife in the sink.

Frida.

You could've cut yourself, and it would’ve hurt, and there will be blood. Just like her dad, Frida. Always trying to harm others. But not you, no, no, no. She would never touch you. And yet, there is a knife in the sink, waiting for you to pick it up.

You curse her name, resisting the temptation to throw the knife on the floor.

Think of other things, think of other things, think of other things…

So you clean the knife with a dishcloth instead.

You carry on your day, because why else? It’s not like she’s out to get you?

At eight thirty, you take out your favorite yoga mat and turn on TV to practice some of your yoga moves, it calms you, it has saved Frida’s life multiple times. You lie on your belly, your arms holding your legs up, your back arching. Deep breath, in, and out.

This is how you think of the happy moments between you and Frida, when she is your little sister. When she rides on your back like she’s an equestrian. When she convinced you to go bungee jumping, she loved the height.

Your 20 minutes of yoga are up, so you roll up the mat, trying your best to ignore the small tear in the corner. Don’t look at it, don’t look at it.

You distract yourself by turning on the news for just ten minutes. The lady on the screen is smiling. She tells you her dad is out of prison.

So much for distracting.

Your breath hitches, as if your toothbrush had fallen in. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. He needs to stay in jail, they cannot release him. Her dad will kill you. Like how she always wanted to.

Frida should be home by now. But she isn’t. She is at the police station, collecting her dad, to plan your murder. She must hate you, everyone must hate you. And you will be dead sooner or later.

Then you must kill her first, it’s the most logical response. Kill her, and everything will be fine. Kill her, then you won’t fear her anymore.

Kill her, then there’s no one you love anymore.

Your fingers start to bleed, your nails are picked beyond recognition, the skins beside them are not too lucky either. But luck isn’t for everyone.

You love Frida, you tell yourself that for the next ten minutes. You love Frida, so you won’t kill her. Killing her means you don’t love her, therefore you can’t kill her. And if you kill her you will have no one to love anymore. You say that until Frida comes home.

She tells you traffic was bad, and she’s been trying to find ingredients for your beef stew that she’s been craving. She begs you to make it, to which you say yes. So she won’t fling a knife at your head.

You cut the beef into pieces, letting the rhythmic sound of the knife hitting the board soothe you. You then pour the boiling hot water into the pot, careful not to spill it on your hand which you cover with plastic gloves.

Frida sits at the counter, mindlessly typing on her phone. Who is she texting? Just a friend. She tells you, and continues to type. Fine, don’t tell me she’s texting with her dad, which she probably isn’t?

She tells you her dad is out of prison.

How does she know that, if she’s been shopping all morning? She must’ve been following her dad’s release date closely, and the reason she’s late today is to plan your rape and murder with her dad. That’s it. She wants to kill you. She doesn’t care about you. All she wants you to do is to cook her a warm, fuzzy pot of beef stew.

Guess what? She can have it, she will have it.

You hand her the bowl of stew after it is cooked. She takes a big whiff at it, to savor her last stew you will ever make for her. Your fists tighten into balls behind your back, trying not to hit her this instant. You want her to be conscious when she dies, like how she will make you witness your rape.

She finishes her bowl, and you spoon her another. She gladly accepts it and spoons it into her mouth, and that’s when you strike.

You knock her to the ground, stuffing her mouth with the dishcloth. Let her taste the knife that she put in the sink to cut you with. You pin down her limbs, and enjoy the desperate muffled cries she lets out. That’s the same cry your mom would’ve made when her dad raped your mom. She tries to fight, but you are much stronger than her, turns out yoga is not meant to calm you, but to prepare you for this moment. Your fingers tap, tap, tap on her arms, you pin her down harder, and harder, she must understand the pain of what she will try to do to you.

But what is that, fear? Is fear staining her eyes? Is she planning to kill you? If she is planning to kill you, she should look smug, because her dad will kill you anyway.

No! She’s a cruel, emotionless creature who is trying to let you have mercy so she can kill you. You must resist. Your damaged nails claw into her delicate, dainty skin. You have no mercy, not anymore, not ever.

So you drag her to the window, and throw her out, taking your dishcloth back.

You wipe away some of the stew spilled on the floor, and sit in her chair, eating her stew.