Perfect

Aunt Helen had two children, a boy and a girl- my cousins, James and Laura- both with blond hair and blue eyes. She had a meticulously clean home with ample space both inside and out.

Her kids had everything they could ever want- books, toys, designer clothes.

Everything was perfect.

Perfect.

Perfect.

She took photos of her children when they were babies. She curled them into a ball and placed them atop the laundry in a wicker basket and took photos of them. Pictures of their feet, their eyes, their lips, their bums. Pictures of them in the bath, on the kitchen counter, in their bed. She made most of the photos black and white and blew them up large and hung them on the walls of their spotless home so that visitors could see how perfect she and her family was.

As the kids grew, so did the photos. Some color, some black and white. The pictures were all so beautiful and… perfect. From sleeping babies to laughing kids. Playing in the sprinkler photos; kids coloring, eating, blowing bubbles, riding bikes, playing soccer photos.

Holiday cards were always photos of the family with a letter describing how perfect everything was.

Perfect.

Perfect.

When I would visit to play with my perfect cousins and their perfect toys, I barely spoke unless it was in a whisper in my cousin’s room with the door closed.

See, my aunt Helen scared the shit out of me. Even when I was a little kid.

James and Laura were scared, too, because when nobody was looking as the sun went down for the night, aunt Helen would yell. She yelled a lot. And she would hit my cousins, too. With books or magazines or the phone or shoes or her hands.

I never saw her hit them, but I could hear it, and afterward, when Laura and/or James would come back into Laura’s room where I would hide, they would try not to say anything, try not to cry, but would typically break down and tell me that what I heard was her beating them. We would stay hidden and as quiet as could be the rest of the night and the next morning, aunt Helen, in a calm, happy, and chipper voice, would call out to us that breakfast was ready: Chocolate chip pancakes or waffles and freshly squeezed orange juice. Served on bright white plates at the dining room table with the shiniest forks and knives. A vase of fresh flowers sitting in the center of the table.

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Time to link up your Red Writing Hood post!

This week Galit and Angela asked you to write a short fiction or non based on the following picture:.

Editor's Note: this piece is fiction.