Nothing but the Truth
Hope you come down with something they can't diagnose, don't have the cure for.
On Christmas day when Miranda was ten, she punched me in the face and broke my nose.
“Randi,” I had whined. “Why did Daddy buy you a dollhouse and me a stupid Polly Pocket?”
“Because I’m older,” she explained calmly. Miranda had two moods: calm and almost dull, or sullen and mysterious. I’d heard Mom talking to her friend Mia about it, and Mia had said she might be bipolar. I didn’t know what that meant until I was eleven.
I frowned. “Nuh uh. Daddy always gets you nicer stuff. He spends more time with you, too. Are you Daddy’s favorite?”
“Shut up, Rina.” Miranda was frowning too now, her thin lips turned down in the corners. I was putting her into one of her moods, as Mom called it. If Mom knew, she’d spank me.
Five-year-olds don’t know how to shut up. “You are Daddy’s favorite! He loves you more, doesn’t he?”
“Shut the hell up, Marina,” Miranda turned to me, dropping her Barbie. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“It’s not fair! Why you?”
My older sister’s fist connected with my nose so solidly, I fell backwards. Blood gushed out, and I screamed. When Mom ran into the room, she turned white as a ghost. I had to spend the rest of my day holding a pack of frozen peas against my face, plotting revenge against Miranda.
That night, I stayed up late, seething. It really wasn’t fair; Miranda was Daddy’s favorite, and on top of that, she hurt me. So when I thought everybody was asleep, I crept down the hall, hell-bent on destroying that damn dollhouse.
When I heard noise coming from her bedroom, though, I froze. It was Daddy.
“Shush, baby, don’t cry,” he told her. My stomach contracted in anger. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart. Daddy loves you, he would never be angry with you.”
With shaking hands, I opened her door just a crack. Neither one of them noticed; Miranda was crying too hard, and Daddy was talking. I peeked into her room through that crack, and my stomach contracted for a different reason. Daddy wasn’t wearing underwear, and neither was Miranda. I didn’t quite understand what he was doing, but I knew it was wrong. I walked back to my bedroom quickly but silently, so neither one of them would notice. Fear had my heart racing.
After that night, I never called her Randi again. I wasn’t jealous of her anymore, either.
“Randi,” I had whined. “Why did Daddy buy you a dollhouse and me a stupid Polly Pocket?”
“Because I’m older,” she explained calmly. Miranda had two moods: calm and almost dull, or sullen and mysterious. I’d heard Mom talking to her friend Mia about it, and Mia had said she might be bipolar. I didn’t know what that meant until I was eleven.
I frowned. “Nuh uh. Daddy always gets you nicer stuff. He spends more time with you, too. Are you Daddy’s favorite?”
“Shut up, Rina.” Miranda was frowning too now, her thin lips turned down in the corners. I was putting her into one of her moods, as Mom called it. If Mom knew, she’d spank me.
Five-year-olds don’t know how to shut up. “You are Daddy’s favorite! He loves you more, doesn’t he?”
“Shut the hell up, Marina,” Miranda turned to me, dropping her Barbie. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“It’s not fair! Why you?”
My older sister’s fist connected with my nose so solidly, I fell backwards. Blood gushed out, and I screamed. When Mom ran into the room, she turned white as a ghost. I had to spend the rest of my day holding a pack of frozen peas against my face, plotting revenge against Miranda.
That night, I stayed up late, seething. It really wasn’t fair; Miranda was Daddy’s favorite, and on top of that, she hurt me. So when I thought everybody was asleep, I crept down the hall, hell-bent on destroying that damn dollhouse.
When I heard noise coming from her bedroom, though, I froze. It was Daddy.
“Shush, baby, don’t cry,” he told her. My stomach contracted in anger. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart. Daddy loves you, he would never be angry with you.”
With shaking hands, I opened her door just a crack. Neither one of them noticed; Miranda was crying too hard, and Daddy was talking. I peeked into her room through that crack, and my stomach contracted for a different reason. Daddy wasn’t wearing underwear, and neither was Miranda. I didn’t quite understand what he was doing, but I knew it was wrong. I walked back to my bedroom quickly but silently, so neither one of them would notice. Fear had my heart racing.
After that night, I never called her Randi again. I wasn’t jealous of her anymore, either.
♠ ♠ ♠
It seems everybody is curious about Miranda. Which is good, because I have a pretty nice story cooked up about her, and the rest of the Bailey family, actually.And of course, my Elias has quite the tale as well, because I love him dearly.
I'm working on another story as well, and I'd link it, but I have to put the finishing touches on it first.
Comment/subscribe, my sweets?