Dear Ana,
Four weeks. That’s how long it took him to strike again.
My birthday changed everything for me, Ana. I was a new person. My universe completely tilted on its axis, revolving around one thing: Mikhail. He was all I thought about. I memorized the way he walked––quick when he was fine, slow and enunciated when he was angry. I memorized his smile––when it was genuine, when it was cruel. I memorized his body language. I memorized the way he breathed and talked. I memorized the way he smelled so I could sniff him out from behind every corner before making myself seen. I noticed every small shift in his energy. Every vibration that radiated off him. Every tiny detail and stroke in his tone.
Our relationship was different now, Ana. Before, I was always waiting for him to be angry, but now I was always waiting for him to be angry at me. I went to sleep every night going over all the ways I could be better. I went over every mistake I made that could possibly trigger him, and I remedied it.
On top of being the perfect daughter, I was also the perfect sister.
But perfection wasn’t enough.
I was reading at the dining room table when my parents announced they were going grocery shopping. They asked me if I wanted to come, but I refused because I needed to finish my readings before school started.
That wasn’t the real reason. I didn’t want to go and have to watch them check the price tag on every jug of juice in the aisle. I didn’t want to notice my dad muttering the calculations under his breath every time they added another item to the cart. I didn’t want to feel my mother’s aura radiating waves of unease while we waited in line. But mostly, I didn’t want to feel the fierce sting of embarrassment spread when my dad asked the cashier to take something out after he heard the price total. And then, once the embarrassment wore off, I didn’t want to feel the immediate stab of guilt for being embarrassed in the first place. They didn’t choose this. They were trying their best.
I didn’t hear Mikhail come downstairs. I kept my head down as he walked through the living room and into the kitchen, my body automatically aware of his sudden presence. I listened carefully as he shuffled around in the cabinets, and after confirming that he was still ignoring my existence, I went back to my reading. A few minutes later I heard a loud bang echo throughout the small space.
I didn’t move a muscle––reacting only made things worse. I locked all my limbs into place and kept my eyes glued on the page, not comprehending a single word. All my brain power was focused on not drawing any attention to myself.
He started banging around in the kitchen again, opening and closing the cabinets roughly. I couldn’t tell what he was looking for, but I knew it was time for me to make my escape.
Everything happened quickly after that.
He pulled open the silverware drawer to grab a spoon. After counting to three I carefully pushed my chair back slightly, cringing when the wooden legs dragged loudly against the carpet. Then, out of nowhere, something hard and cold hit me in the eye.
I touched my eyebrow lightly, flinching away at the stinging sensation that followed. There was a spoon lying on the floor beside me, and Mikhail had dumped all the contents of the drawer onto the kitchen counter.
“Why are all the spoons dirty?” He wasn’t yelling, but his voice still impaled through me.
I stood up without responding and Mikhail immediately stormed toward me. After weighing my options for half a second, I swiftly ducked down under the table.
“Why are you running away, huh? Why are you scared?” he asked lividly, grabbing one of the chairs. I crawled to the opposite end, panting heavily, but the length of the table wasn’t very long. I was just about to shove one of the chairs out of the way so I could scurry out through the other end when I felt a very familiar hand wrap around my ankle.
He tugged on my leg roughly, pulling me to him. I reached out to grab onto one of the chairs, but my fingers grasped nothing but air. My chest hit the ground as he dragged me out, causing my glasses to slip off my nose and tumble onto the floor. I squinted desperately and tried to focus on my surroundings, but my vision was completely obstructed.
I kicked and thrashed against his hand, frantically trying to escape, but he only tightened his grip on me. He released me once I was out from under the table, and I quickly turned to flee but his fingers were back. They wove through my hair, yanking me up and onto my feet.
“Let go of me,” I said, trying to step away but that only made him jerk my hair harder. He shoved me into the kitchen and pushed my face down toward the pile of cutlery on the counter.
“Tell me, Maya, do these look clean to you?” he breathed into my ear. The heat from his body in my proximity was making my skin crawl. I willed my corneas to magically fix themselves, but all I could see was a blob of color, and my eyes welled up, eclipsing my vision further.
“Answer me!” he screamed, making me jump.
“I can’t see!” I told him, causing him to thrust my face right into the pile, a million sharp edges digging into my skin at the same time.
“Can you see now?” he demanded, but my lips wouldn’t stop sobbing long enough to form a coherent answer. I couldn’t understand what was happening. How did we get to this point? What was wrong with him?
“Take them all to the sink and wash them properly,” he ordered. “You need to be better than this, Maya. I need to watch you scrub them until they’re clean.”
I swiftly grabbed a handful of spoons, knives, and forks in my fists and tried to turn but he was still clenching my hair tightly, preventing me from moving. Without warning, he let go and pushed me to the sink. I attempted to take a step blindly but inevitably tripped on the mat and stumbled to the floor. I managed to empty my hands to break my fall, but before I could right myself I felt Mikhail’s foot on my back, ramming me violently into the cabinets.
I cried out from the force of the impact. There was a throbbing ache erupting from every inch of my body, each sting fighting for my attention but I ignored them. I felt around the floor, collecting everything I dropped before standing up and tossing them into the sink.
I could feel him standing behind me as I vigorously scrubbed away, scrutinizing my every move and suddenly everything was too much. My cloaked vision was getting fuzzier and my heartbeat was thrashing painfully against my rib cage. The sponge slipped through my fingers and I hastily splashed through the sink to retrieve it, terrified of the repercussions that were soon to follow because of my clumsiness––
“Maya?”
I froze at my mom’s voice, before quickly turning and collapsing in her arms.
“Maya, honey, what are you doing?”
I couldn’t control my sobs long enough to answer her. She held me tightly, letting me cry until eventually, my trembling subsided.
“I dropped my glasses,” I whispered, wiping my eyes. “I can’t see.”
I vaguely saw my mom rush to the dining room to retrieve them. I looked around, but Mikhail was nowhere to be found. The chairs were all pushed back into the right place around the table. The pile of cutlery that I could have sworn was on the counter had disappeared.
“Maya, what’s going on?” Mama asked, looking at me with concern and confusion. I opened my mouth to speak but stopped when I noticed the single limp grocery bag she was carrying.
The pile of unopened bills in my dad’s hand.
The stress lines etched deeply into my mom’s forehead.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “I wanted to clean up before you came home, but I . . . lost my glasses and got scared because I couldn’t see.”
She continued to analyze my face carefully but didn’t say anything. She didn’t comment on my frizzy and tangled hair. She didn’t question the scratch on my eyebrow that was bleeding. She didn’t ask why I was shaking and crying and kept jumping in fright at every noise. I know she noticed, but she just never asked.
And in turn, I never told.
I went up to my room while she put away the groceries so I could clean myself up. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, horrified by the person I saw before quickly flipping the mirror compartment open so I couldn’t see her anymore.
Siblings fight, I reminded myself as I covered the gash in my eyebrow with a Band-Aid.
Siblings fight, I reminded myself as I washed his fingerprints off my skin.
Siblings fight, I reminded myself as I ran my trembling fingers through my hair and watched the clumps fall into the sink, one by one, along with my tears.
I stayed in my room until everyone was asleep. There was an itch in the back of my brain, and I needed to soothe it. I went into the kitchen and inspected all the silverware.
They were all clean, Ana, but I checked again just in case.
And then again once more.
Again because I lost my place.
Again, Maya.
Did you check that one, on the right?
You need to be better, Maya.
Is that just a smudge or is it food?
You need to be perfect, Maya.
But perfection wasn’t enough . . . so I checked again, and again, and again, and AGAIN––
I never stopped.
He never stopped either, Ana. I was his new addiction. His favorite toy to play with whenever he wanted to because he knew that toys couldn’t talk.
Which brings us back to today. Three years later. On my way back home after months in the hospital.
I’ll let you know when he strikes again.
