THE FACEBOOK MARKETPLACE DIARIES

Weird Hand-Painted Mid-Century Dish: $100

“I’m sorry, I know I suck at wrapping.” Marcella shook her head, the feathered locks of her honey-blonde curtain bangs shaking with it. You looked down at the pink-and-purple-polka-dot-wrapped present on the table, the corners perfectly smoothed and tucked—not a wrinkle, not a rip in sight.

Perfect—as usual, you thought to yourself. You’d grown accustomed to these performances of manufactured embarrassment over the years—her signature play-pretend modesty. Most people bought it hook, line, and sinker, but not you. No—for you, the sound of her white lies felt like a fly landing on the fleshy surface of your brain and rubbing its dirty little legs together. Like an irritating, unreachable itch.

“Oh yeah, Mar? Do you suck at wrapping? Are you so sick of not being able to gain weight with your unusually fast metabolism? Is it so annoying that people can’t believe you’ve never had any cosmetic surgery? Are you just so fucking tired of being so fucking perfect all the time?” That’s what you wanted to say, but of course, you didn’t—you couldn’t. Like it or not, she was your sister—and the Cheesecake Factory was no place for a family brawl.

You shoved the feeling aside, tucking a lock of your own noticeably thinner, duller blonde hair behind your ear with a smile—after all, you had an audience. Your best friends, Aimee, Ainsleigh, Ashleigh R., and Ashleigh J., were all watching, iPhones poised and ready to capture every mundane moment of your twenty-eighth birthday.

None of them understood the dynamic between you and Marcella. The creative ways she toyed with and tortured you, goading and poking, only to shrink away and cower when you bit back. She played the victim well—she always had. So well, in fact, that when she was caught smoking weed in her room at fifteen and claimed you were the one who procured it for her, your parents believed her.

She’d lied, of course—you’d never smoked pot, you’d never done anything out of order. The only alcohol you’d ever consumed back then was parentally sanctioned champagne at your cousin Sandy’s wedding in Austin the summer before, and even then, it was just a few sips. Marcella was the bad seed, but according to your parents, you were the older one, and she couldn’t possibly have gotten into those bad girl habits without you leading the way.

Your ex-military father had made short work of sending you away to spend your senior year at one of Grand Prairie’s most highly-accredited academic treatment programs, the New Hope School for Girls. You may have entered New Hope as a sweet, straight-A student who still slept with a night light at seventeen, but after spending that year under the thumb of suppressive authority figures who felt the best means of punishment, or rather, “course correction,” was long, brutal periods of solitary confinement, you left a hollow shell of your former self. Your parents felt your new, quietly reserved demeanor was evidence of a good return on their investment—that you were cured of your insubordination. They were unaware that it was actually the depression, disordered eating, and anxiety that had caused that personality shift in the wake of your torment.

While you were being punished for her crimes, Marcella had become the most popular girl at your former high school, taking it upon herself to make Aimee, Ainsleigh, Ashleigh R., and Ashleigh J., your best friends since kindergarten, her brand new posse. Of course, when you returned from bad kid school, your friends felt it was perfectly natural, convenient even, to form a supergroup with both you and your sister. Any protestation you may have made initially, citing Marcella’s betrayal and the devastating, real-world repercussions it had on your life, was met with sidelong glances and accusations of baseless grudge-holding.

“Honestly, like, you need to let it go.” Ashleigh R. said one afternoon on an outing at the Grand Prairie Premium Outlets.

Her urging came after Marcella removed her sweater while you all perused the racks at American Eagle to reveal your favorite Free People seamless top—the one that had mysteriously gone missing from your closet. After you rather angrily accused her of having stolen it from you, your sister denied the theft in an impressive performance, claiming she bought it in an attempt to match her beloved big sister, and promptly burst into tears. As she fled the store, Aimee and Ashleigh J. followed after her, leaving you alone to plead your case to Ashleigh R.

“God, everyone thinks Marcella’s so—so nice!” You’d stomped your foot, fighting hot tears of frustration. “But you have to believe me, my sister is literally evil.”

“Maybe everyone thinks Mar’s nice because she is nice,” Ashleigh R. retorted. “You’re the one who's been, like, a huge bitch ever since you got back.”

You’d watched, seething in anger, as she left to join the comforting huddle Aimee and Ashleigh J. had formed around your sister on a bench just outside.

After that, you decided that for your own sanity, you’d play just as nice as your sister pretended to be. For nearly a decade now, you’d put on a show like the one you were committed to here at the Cheesecake Factory. It was lonely, taxing even at times as the secret rage coursed through your veins just beneath the surface, threatening to unspool your entire being—but as far as you could tell, it was the only option.

“Aw, Mar,” you said with saccharine sweetness, pulling the present towards you. “I said no gifts!”

“I know, I know,” Marcella replied, hands raised in mock defense. “But I saw this in the window of an antique shop and just thought it was so you.”

Of course she’d insisted on buying you something. You’d set the rule to avoid emotional injury after last year when she got you a bikini line laser hair removal package, claiming in front of everyone that it was a thoughtful gesture because you’d “always struggled with that.” This year, it would, in all likelihood, be an ugly piece of jewelry you’d be forced to wear indefinitely under threat of hurting her feelings.

You tore open the faultless wrapping to reveal a shallow, white cardboard gift box. Glancing up at your sister, you watched her twinkling blue eyes follow your every movement as you lifted the lid and turned your attention to what lay inside.

It was—a dish. A handmade ceramic type, formed in the shape of a child’s pallid face, with ruddy cheeks, blonde hair, and ice-blue eyes. It appeared to be in the midst of a tantrum, its mouth, the color of blood on paper, open as if yelling, brows furrowed angrily with flares of soft pink to depict straining emotion.

Your calculated smile faltered as you stared at it. You knew it was meant to be symbolic—that was the dig, of course. A mirror image of the troubled teen who’d been sent away for rehabilitation—the “bad child.” The restaurant din around you seemed to fade, becoming muted and far off, and in the strange quiet, you could’ve sworn you heard its scream.

“I love it—thank you.” The words tumbled from your lips with surprising sincerity. It was a little eerie, sure, but—there was something about it that felt—comforting.

You looked up to see Aimee, Ainsleigh, Ashleigh R., and Ashleigh J. all staring at the plate, their faces ranging from utter confusion to thinly veiled disgust. Marcella seemed equally surprised, taken aback by your genuine gratitude.

“You’re—so welcome,” your sister said, struggling to regain control of her act.

The remainder of the evening felt like a dream. You swam through cake and candles, through your friends’ atonal rendition of the happy birthday song, deliberations over the check, and your eventual farewells. You drove home in a daze, steadied only by your two hands on the wheel—your eyes wandering again and again towards that white cardboard box resting just beside you on the passenger seat.

You let your purse slump to the ground as you stepped inside your apartment and flicked on the lights. Your leaden feet dragged over the grey laminate floors until you reached your cream boucle sofa and took a seat, placing the box on the coffee table in front of you with a tired huff.

Another year older, and everything is exactly the same, you thought to yourself, laying your head back and gazing up at the ceiling. Happy fucking Birthday to me.

You weren’t sure how long your eyes had been closed, if you’d dozed off, or if mere moments had passed, but as you sat up, you were surprised to see the plate unsheathed and sitting atop the table. You pondered the oddity for only a moment before getting up, intent on retrieving a prickly pear Ranch Water from the fridge to accompany what was sure to be several hours of mindless television before bed. You made it halfway back to the couch when a strange voice stopped you dead in your tracks.

“I know the truth about her, you know.”

It was like nothing you’d ever heard before—a layer of voices, both young and old, male and female, harmonious and dissonant. It seemed to be coming from every direction at once.

Terror constricted your chest in a vice-like grip as you whirled, your head whipping from side to side, searching for the intruder—but the room was empty. Your heart thundered as you scanned the small space, inching forward.

“Wh-who are you?” You tried to steady your voice to no avail. “I—I have a gun!”

It wasn’t a lie—this was Texas, after all, and while your Glock was locked and loaded, unfortunately, it also happened to be tucked away safely under your bed. The voice chuckled then, an oily, slithery sound intermingled with the tinkling of a child’s laughter.

“I’m your friend,” it cooed softly. “Your only true friend.”

“I—I don’t know how you got in here,” you said, continuing your slow, careful steps forward as you searched for the source of the voice. “But please just leave, whoever you are!”

“My darling girl, you know how I got in,” the layered voice replied. “You carried me, of course.”

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you stopped just before the coffee table and looked down at the plate—at the bad child. As another laugh echoed around the room, emanating from nowhere and everywhere, you could’ve sworn you saw the little red mouth glow.

“No—no.” You shook your head, stumbling back onto the couch. “This isn’t real—you’re a plate, you can’t talk.”

“Oh, but I can,” it said, clear as day. “I can speak, and I can listen too. I’ve listened long enough to know that your sister is exactly what you believe she is—pure evil.”

Any remaining skepticism, any urge you had to rail against the impossible, stopped short at the sound of its words.

“Wait—really?”

“Yes,” came the low hiss like wind over dry leaves. “And I can help you to be free.”

“Free?”

“Yes, child, imagine it—a world without Marcella.”

“What?” You exclaimed, slamming the ranch water on the table. “What—what are you saying?”

“Don’t play coy.” The voice was hard, nearly menacing now. “I have seen what lies in your heart—I know the pain, the sorrowful darkness. Marcella’s lies imprisoned you in that hell, robbing you of your teenage dreams and condemning you to a life of loneliness!” The voice reached a screaming crescendo, swirling around you like a tempest as the plate’s painted mouth glowed red hot. “Marcella is to blame for your strife! She must be rooted out like a weed, like a poison, like a pestilence upon the land!” The sound fell then, returning to a softer, sweeter tone as it concluded, “Don’t you see? Marcella must be—eliminated.”

“Eliminated?” You echoed, squinting down at the plate. “You mean, like—kill her?”

“It is the only way, I’m afraid,” it answered. “The only way for you to truly know peace.”

“Fuck.” You reached forward then, popping the top of the hard seltzer and taking a long sip. “So, like hypothetically—how would I do it?”

“An air embolism,” it replied simply.

“A what?”

It made a strange, exasperated noise, something akin to a sigh, before replying, “Remember that one Law and Order Special Victims Unit episode where a nurse kills elderly women who remind her of her mother by injecting air directly into their veins?”

“Oh yeah—with Jane Krakowski. Such a good one.”

“Yes—anyway, that is how you will put an end to Marcella.”

“Huh.” You took another hefty swig.

“It will be over and done before you know it,” it continued gently. “You already have the tools—you can use one of those leftover syringes from when you had to give sweet Bootsy his insulin shots.”

You felt a pang of sadness at the thought of Bootsy, your beloved diabetic cat. Of course, Marcella had cruelly decided to get a new kitten of her own the week after he died.

You considered the impossible—taking the advice of a sentient antique plate to exact revenge at long last against your conniving sister. It was a moral quandary, of course—but you had long ago stopped believing in a God who would allow you to suffer as you had suffered. Perhaps the plate was right—this was the only way to find peace.

“Okay,” you said finally, downing the last of your drink. “Let’s do it.”

You dressed swiftly in all black before retrieving the syringes, a bottle of NyQuil, rubber gloves, and the remaining case of Ranch Water. The plan was to drive to Marcella’s house, claiming you wanted to have a sisterly heart-to-heart over a drink. You knew your sister couldn’t resist a low-calorie alcoholic seltzer—it would be easy to lace each of the three or four cans she’d blow through with just enough cough medicine to urge her to sleep. When she announced that she was going to bed, you’d tell her it was no problem, that you’d clean and lock up after yourself. Once she was unconscious, you would sneak into her bedroom and carefully inject her carotid artery with a bubble of air, leading to an eventual heart attack—or maybe respiratory failure. You couldn’t remember exactly which had occurred in the Law and Order episode.

You stuffed your tools in a reusable Free People tote and headed for the door, gingerly carrying your ceramic accomplice with you. Your pulse quickened with every minute as you got in the car and set off on the short drive, the plate occasionally interrupting the tense silence with words of encouragement and affirmation.

“Freedom.”

“Liberty.”

“Peace.”

“Justice.”

At long last, you pulled into the guest parking of your sister’s apartment building and turned off the engine, tucking the plate into the large front pocket of your sweatshirt as you stepped outside. The bag hung heavy over your shoulder, thumping against your body with every step as you climbed the stairs, your sister’s door now plainly in view. This was it. A simple, foolproof act of sororicide—and you would be free.

Marcella took her sweet time coming to the door after you knocked. As her evidently suspicious face appeared in the doorway, you took care to fix your own with a look of sincerity as you said, “Hi, Mar! Look, I know we just did my whole birthday thing, but—I thought it could be nice if we had a little sister time, just the two of us.”

“Oh, um,” she replied, somewhat absent the facade she reserved for company. “I dunno, it’s pretty late—”

“I know, I know, but—you gave me that beautiful gift earlier, and I guess it just really got me thinking about everything you’ve done—for me.” You sighed. “You really tried to welcome me back after I got sent away—I mean, you even made an effort to get closer to my friends!” You laughed then, a little more maniacally than you intended. “I just feel like I haven’t really done the same, but I really want to start fresh—tonight.” You withdrew one of the cans, grinning and shaking it cartoonishly. “Plus, I brought skinny girl drinks!”

“Okay—well, thank you for acknowledging all of that,” Marcella replied haughtily, crossing her arms. “You can come in or whatever.” She turned, retreating inside as she called over her shoulder, “But I can’t go overboard—I have an early morning.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said as you crossed the threshold. “You’ll get your beauty sleep.”

You closed the door behind you, the drumming of your heartbeat rising louder and louder. Below, pressed against your belly within the pocket of your sweatshirt, you heard the bad child plate begin to laugh.