She was on the front page of every newspaper in town. The crime she had committed was downright insane.
She had stolen a body from a mortuary. She had brought the body home. Unfortunately, she cannot hide the smell of rotting flesh.
The maid had discovered her little secret tucked away in her dressing closet. The maid screamed her heart out. The maid had called the police.
She did not protest when the police officers put a handcuff on her hands. She calmly followed the police officers to their car which was parked in the driveway.
A group of neighbours had gathered in front of her house. She was not angry at their nosiness. She smiled sweetly at them.
“Her smile brought fear to my heart,” one of the neighbours would later describe the experience.
“What did you do with the missing flesh?” they asked.
The dead body they found in her house was not totally intact. Some of the flesh was missing from the body.
“I ate it.”
Her answer repulsed everyone in the interrogation room.
“Why did you eat the flesh?” they asked.
She refused to answer them. She went into silent mode. They shouted at her. She was not angry at their outburst. She smiled sweetly at them
“Her smile brought fear to my heart,” one of the police detectives would later describe the experience.
The media had a field day reporting her bizarre story. A few journalists had speculated she is a devil worshiper and that eating flesh is a part of her ritual.
In a television interview, a priest who looked like he spent more time at the gym than the church said: “We need to put Jesus back in her heart. We need to kill the devil that is corrupting her soul.”
Others believed there was no devil and God involved. They saw her as a brat who loves performing reckless stunts just to gain attention.
A television talk show host who looked like she was suffering from an eating disorder said: “She does not need Jesus in her heart. She just needs a good spanking in her butt. Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
The media was obsessed with her. They stalked her. They followed her where ever she went. They can’t stop taking her pictures.
She was not angry at their intrusive nature. She smiled sweetly at them.
“Her smile brought fear to my heart,” one of the journalists would later describe the experience.
The courtroom was packed. Everyone was eager to catch a glimpse of the girl who eats flesh. They want to hear the gory details of her cannibalism.
She was dressed in black from head to toe, looking like a gothic doll. She showed no sign of fear. She never blinked her eyes, not even once.
The stern-looking judge looked at her with contempt. He would have loved to drag her to prison and throw away the keys to her freedom in a deep blue sea. But his hands were tied.
She was underage. She was only sixteen. She was sent to a psychiatric ward for the next seven years.
The judge said: “I pray that they can cure you.”
She was not angry at the stern-looking judge for his harsh judgement. She smiled sweetly at him.
“Her smile brought fear to my heart,” the judge would later describe the experience.
“Why did you eat her?”
She hides nothing from me. She tells me everything. I am her confidante. I am her sister.
Smiling sweetly at me, she answered: “I eat her because I want to be brilliant like her… I want to be creative like her… I want to be her.”
The body my sister had stolen from the mortuary was not a total stranger. She knew Alice Blake, inside out.
I was the one who introduced Alice Blake to my sister. Instantly, my sister worships the ground that Alice Blake walks on.
My sister said: “I love the stories she tells.”
Alice Blake is not the kind of author who writes about a Cinderella looking for her Prince Charming. Her Cinderella would likely kill her Prince Charming violently and eat his heart, without an ounce of regret.
In a television interview, Alice Blake bluntly said: “If you are looking for happiness, my novels are not your cup of tea. You can’t expect someone who does not know the meaning of happiness to write about happiness.”
One rainy morning, Alice Blake decided to end her not-so-happy life. She was found hanging from the ceiling fan.
Her suicide note was carved on the wall. It was short and sweet.
Alice Blake wrote: “Sometimes, death is more beautiful than life.”
Some speculated that she had an illness that was slowly robbing her ability to write.
Before putting the rope over her neck, I could imagine Alice Blake saying to herself: “If I cannot tell the stories that are trapped in my soul, there is no point in living.”
Others said that she was totally devastated when she found the man she loves in bed with another woman.
Before putting the rope over her neck, I could imagine Alice Blake saying to herself: “The cure for a broken heart is death and nothing else.”
Her eyes never stop producing tears. My sister had a tough time dealing with the death of her favourite author.
My sister said: “She is too young to die. She has so many stories to tell to the world.”
She was determined that Alice Blake should not vanish from the world.
Wiping her tears away, my sister said: “I will tell the stories she can never tell the world.”
I visited my sister every week at the psychiatric ward that has become her new home. The doctors were extremely confident that they can cure my sister.
They said: “Your sister will have a healthy mind.”
They failed to understand that some madness has no cure and that some of us are not meant to have a healthy mind.
“She is growing in me.”
My sister was jumping with joy when expressing these words to me.
Pointing at her eyes, my sister said: “Look at the colours of my eyes. They are no longer black. My eyes have the colours of her eyes.”
My sister is utterly convinced Alice Blake is slowly taking over her body and her soul.
With a sweet smile, my sister said: “Her blood runs in my veins. Soon, she will be me and I will be her.”
“You have to change your name”
That was the first thing my mother said to my sister after she had completed her seven years sentence in a psychiatric ward.
“All of us are going to change our names,” my mother said.
Changing our names was the only way to stop the media from tracking us.
My mother said: “I want the media to stop harassing us. I do not want the media camping in front of our house, anymore.”
Changing names was not the only thing we had to do. My mother had decided that we would no longer stay in the house where my sister and I were raised.
The new house we called home is a place that is far from madding crowd. Our new house has no neighbour on the left and has no neighbour on the left. The nearest neighbour is miles away.
“We will not be recognized easily here,” my mother said.
My mother believes we can restart our lives with fresh new happy chapters with a new name and a new house.
“We can leave the madness behind,” my mother said.
My mother should have learned that some madness will not leave you alone. Some madness has the power to follow you till you are buried six feet underground.
When we arrived at our new house, the first thing my mother did was start a bonfire in our backyard. My mother forced my sister to burn every novel she has by Alice Blake.
Looking at Alice Blake’s novels slowly turning into ashes in the bonfire, my mother said: “Alice Blake no longer lives in our house… in our hearts… in our mind.”
My mother desperately wanted to erase the memory of Alice Blake from our lives. But some memories just refused to fade away.
“Your life will not be a carbon copy of Alice Blake.”
My mother went berserk when she learned that my sister had enrolled herself in a writing course at the same university that Alice Blake had gone to.
My mother said “You will not write crazy stories like Alice Blake. You will not waste your life away.”
My sister remained absolutely silent throughout the fiery conversation with my mother. She just stared at my mother with her famous sweet smile signature.
Two weeks later, my mother was brutally stabbed to death in a lonely street. Her purse was nowhere to be found.
The police innocently believed my mother’s death was a mugging incident that has gone violently wrong.
“Did you kill mother?” I asked, without hesitation.
Pointing at a fly that was resting peacefully on her arm, my sister said with a sweet smile: “I can’t even harm a fly.”
My sister has become a more popular writer than Alice Blake. Some of her books have been turned into successful movies. Her writing has given her, a cupboard full of awards.
Her stories paint an impression that the world is a terrible place to live in.
In a television interview, my sister said: “Heaven is an illusion. Your life begins and ends in a horrible residence called earth and there is nothing in between.”
The success, the awards, and the accolades meant nothing to my sister. What matters for my sister is that she has kept the legacy of Alice Blake, alive.
She wishes that she can shout to everyone out there that it was Alice Blake who wrote the novels that they love and not her.
My sisters said: “No one will believe my story… No one will believe Alice Blake lives in me…. Sometimes lies are easier digest than the truth.”
Today my sister visits me at my new condominium. I have prepared a lavish dinner for us, cooking all the dishes that my sister loves.
My sister is admiring the beauty of city lights from my balcony with a glass of champagne.
I said: “You can see the sunrise from my balcony.”
Excitement was written all over her face. My sister is planning to get up early and capture several pictures of the magnificent sunrise from my balcony with her new sophisticated Samsung handphone that she has just bought.
I did not have the heart to tell my sister that her wish will not come true. She will not see the sunrise, tomorrow. Tonight will be her last night on earth.
Everything has been planned carefully. I will hack her to pieces with an axe. Some of her flesh will be missing from her body.
I will eat her because I want to be brilliant like her… I want to be creative like her… I want to be her.
Bissme S has just published his latest short story The Gift which deals with sibling relationships in the short story anthology The Big Book of Malaysian Horror Stories published by Fixi Novo.