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A Nearly Normal Family(63)

Author:M.T. Edvardsson

“And if you smoke and drink and stuff.”

“That’s just sick. Seriously, that is not healthy.”

Amina shifted her weight from foot to foot. Brushed her hair off her cheeks. She was scared. Dad had threatened to blab to Dino, even though Amina didn’t drink or smoke or any of that shit. She hardly hung out with those guys. She would rather stay home and watch TV, play handball or basketball, hang out with the guys from our class. Every time she came along to Landskrona, it was for my sake.

It was so unfair for Dad to attack her.

* * *

A few days later, we met outside the station. Amina was tired, not wearing any makeup—she looked like a fucking corpse.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said.

I took her by the arm and pulled her onto an empty platform. I stroked her hair out of her face and patted her cheeks.

“What’s going on? Tell me.”

Her breathing was uneven.

“Your dad,” she said quietly. “I told him. I had to.”

“What did you say?”

She hung her head and cried. I couldn’t help it—I shook her shoulders in desperation.

“What did you say to Dad?”

She could only produce a few words at a time.

“I had to … he grabbed me … hard … my arm.”

“That bastard!” I said. “What did you tell him?”

She shook her head in despair.

“The weed,” she cried. “I told him about the weed.”

I stared at her. My best friend since forever ago. My twin soul. The only person who truly knew me.

It was such a huge betrayal. So unfathomable.

“How could you?”

Amina rubbed her eyes.

I watched her as my hand clenched. The muscles twitched and pulled. I couldn’t control myself. My fist flew through the air and it was almost like I was watching it from the outside, like it was a movie.

Amina didn’t have a chance. My knuckles struck her square in the cheekbone. There was a crunch and it felt tremendous. Better than drugs. I had never felt anything like it.

48

The guards don’t knock. The key turns in the lock and an instant later they’re standing in my room.

It’s Jimmy with the goatee and that new girl, the one who tried to stare me to pieces by the commissary cart the other day. They’ve come to pick up my meal tray.

“Not tasty today?” Jimmy says with a smile.

I’ve left a whole sea of baked beans on my plate. I mean, I’m not picky, I eat most stuff. But baked beans, I just can’t.

“There’s commissary tonight, right?” I ask.

Jimmy’s still smiling. He’s always walking around with that grin on his face, as far as I can tell. It’s not friendly at all. It looks smug, as if he’s smiling at his own imagined splendidness.

“We’ll see. It’s so easy to forget to unlock everyone’s door. Isn’t it, Elsa?”

The new girl doesn’t respond. She barely looks up. She probably wants to avoid getting caught in the middle.

“You heard what he said, Elsa,” I say in an exaggeratedly clear voice. “You’re my witness. If I’m not allowed to buy anything tonight…”

I trail off. It’s not worth it. It’s impossible to win, with someone like Jimmy.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says, guffawing.

He hands my tray to Elsa; his smile vanishes and he looks at me with disgust.

“Is it true you stabbed him in the chest over and over?”

I feel the internal struggle. I know exactly what he’s after, and I have no intention of giving it to him.

Jimmy turns to Elsa.

“Can you believe that this little chick is a brutal killer?” he says.

Elsa gives him a pleading look that says she wants nothing more than to get out of here, away from the smell, back to her normal world where everything is puppies and rainbows.

But Jimmy doesn’t give in.

“You’d never think so, right?” he says. “Right, Elsa?”

Elsa looks down at her feet.

“You can’t tell by looking at someone whether they’re a killer, can you?”

I appreciate her courage.

“They? There’s only one person we’re talking about here,” Jimmy says with a harsh laugh. “Listen, Elsa, I was na?ve when I first started working here too. You’ll learn. After five years in this place, I’ve come to realize that’s all bullshit. In fact, you can totally tell from looking at someone that she’s trash. Most killers look just like you’d imagine: swarthy Travelers, filthy Gypsies. Hardly anything is a surprise.”

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