A Twisted Smile

Sasha’s hands trembled as she folded her letter, each crease a whisper of finality. She slipped it into the envelope, careful not to smudge the ink that sealed her fate. A single teardrop hung on her lash, poised to fall but ultimately spared the paper. Sealing it brought immense satisfaction. It wasn’t just closing an envelope; it was closing a chapter of her life. Finally, it was the right time.

A year ago, the idea took root. She wasn't ready then, so she started her meticulous research—timing, location, and potential legal consequences. Each step was rehearsed to the minute, at least a dozen times. As she lifted her head, she accidentally brushed against the balloons still tied to the overhead lamp. The numbers '1' and '6' bobbed slightly—ghostly reminders of her sweet sixteen. And of Hank, the 'King' of birthdays.

Sasha had always yearned for a real Dad, not just a 'father figure.' Hank fit the latter description perfectly. Unlike her friends' dads, who exuded genuine warmth and care, Hank's fatherly façade was polished exclusively for public view. Birthday parties were his stage—elaborate spectacles orchestrated to perfection. He charmed the neighbors with his grilling skills, cracked jokes over beers, and effortlessly assumed the role of the generous host. His words flowed like a seasoned salesman’s pitch, convincing everyone that Hank was the epitome of the perfect dad.

But Sasha knew better. She remembered the cold silence that settled at home after the guests left, the way his smile vanished the moment the door closed. Each birthday candle she blew out felt like a wish for a real connection, a real dad. He was not a real dad, let alone perfect.

Her earliest memories of Hank went back to her sixth birthday. It had been a good afternoon, filled with laughter and pie, Hank playing his part. He lifted Sasha onto his shoulders, making her feel special as neighbors admired his charm. His smile stretched wide, curling unnaturally at the corners, revealing peg-like teeth in a twisted way. His eyes were cold and hard, staring through people instead of at them. The effort to maintain the façade made the corners of his mouth twitch. His unwavering, unblinking gaze fixed on his target with an intensity that made Sasha's skin crawl. It was a mask barely concealing the darkness beneath.

But as soon as the last guest departed, ‘Happy Hank’, and his smile, vanished like smoke in the wind. In his place, ‘Hell Hank’ emerged, a specter with darkened eyes and simmering rage. "Thank God that's over," he muttered, slumping into his chair, his cheerful mask replaced by a scowl.

Sasha and her mother, Jane, tidied up in tense silence, avoiding his gaze. Jane’s hands trembled as she wiped the table, her earlier brightness now shadowed by fear. Hank poured himself a whiskey, grumbling about the noise. "Sasha, get me an ashtray," he barked, his eyes narrowing. She complied quickly, her small hands fumbling. Birthdays were supposed to be special, and with Hank, they were. Just not the kind of special Sasha longed for.

The fear that dominated their lives was not limited to birthdays; it was a constant shadow, dictating their every move. Every glance, every word, every breath was measured to avoid sparking Hank’s unpredictable wrath. Sasha’s heart ached for the days when her biggest worry was blowing out birthday candles, not walking on eggshells around a man who could shift from charming to terrifying in a heartbeat.

With the letter in hand, Sasha was ready to go downstairs. The clock in her room flashed from 19:44 to 19:45. Fifteen minutes left. Soon, he'd be done with his work in the study—the perfect moment. She took a deep breath and started down the stairs, the creak of the wooden steps under her feet adding to her anxiety. Her gaze drifted to the photos lining the wall.

Her favorite depicted Jane in the kitchen, a place she always associated with warmth and safety. In the photo, her mom’s expression reflected quiet determination, her hands expertly maneuvering amidst pots and pans, a soft smile curving her lips. The morning sunlight streaming through the window framed her face, accentuating the gentle contours and the faint lines that hinted at years of care and resilience.

Sasha’s eyes lingered on the image, seeing beyond the captured moment of domesticity. She saw the grace in her mom’s movements, the way her eyes crinkled with laughter when they baked together, the subtle strength in the set of her shoulders when Hank's temper flared. It was in these ordinary scenes—baking cookies, planting flowers, sharing stories—that her mom’s true beauty shone through, not in the superficial sense of appearance, but in the depth of her love and unwavering spirit. At least, she had a real mom.

Downstairs, she placed the letter on the kitchen counter. The clock read ten to eight. In about seven minutes, she planned to slide it under the door. Three minutes would be early enough but not at the last minute, literally. She counted on his mind still being occupied by the letter when he would exit the study. He wouldn’t be prepared, wouldn’t see this coming. Probably the biggest surprise of his life. Everything was set, yet one crucial thing was missing—the knife.

She knew exactly which knife to use. Opening the top drawer of the kitchen, she found their modest cutlery collection. The chosen knife wasn’t from their usual set. They had acquired it at half price from the village butcher, redeeming accumulated points. It arrived in a wooden box, nestled in an inlay, its Damascus steel blade shimmering under the kitchen lights. Sasha had researched its origin online—a Japanese-inspired design with a distinctive rippled pattern, like waves frozen in metal. She took it out of the box, examining its craftsmanship. Yes, this will do just fine, she thought.

Her mind wandered as Sasha thought back to her twelfth birthday party. Hank, in his element, worked the floor, charm on full display. Edgar, a new colleague of Jane's, joined them at the table, offering compliments on the strawberry pie. Sasha found herself drawn to Edgar's presence, his kindness a stark contrast to Hank's volatile nature.

She had met Edgar once during a work-related picnic. Her mom had taken Sasha with her, as they had no sitter that day. It had been the best day of the year for Sasha. The sun was shining, and laughter echoed across the park. Edgar had shown Sasha how to fly a kite, his patience and warmth making her feel valued. Her mom's eyes sparkled with a light Sasha hadn’t seen in years, and they shared more laughter in those few hours than they had all year. Sasha remembered her mom's genuine smile as they picnicked on the grass, the way they had collapsed into giggles while trying to catch a frisbee gone wild. That day felt like a glimpse into a different life—a life free from Hank's oppressive shadow.

As the last guests bid their farewells, tension simmered beneath the surface. Hank approached Jane with a menacing glare, his voice low and dangerous. "I saw you! I saw how you were flirting with that guy. Right in front of me, making me look like a fool!” Hank accused, his words slurred. "Why the fuck did you bring him here?"

Jane’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Hank, he brought a gift for Sasha. It’s her birthday, Goddammit!”

Without warning, Hank’s hand struck Jane’s cheek, leaving a red mark in its wake. Jane recoiled, clutching her face in shock and pain, her eyes welling with tears.

“Hank, you're wrong about this,” she said calmly, her voice shaking as she attempted to defuse the situation. “Please, let’s not do this now.”

“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” His face contorted with rage. He raised his hand again, but this time, Sasha stepped between them, her heart racing with fear and anger.

“Stop it!” Sasha pleaded, her voice quivering, eyes wide with terror.

Hank hesitated, his anger simmering as he glared at Jane. “You think I’m stupid? I saw everything,” he muttered, his bitterness palpable.

Jane looked at Sasha, silently pleading for her to go to her room. Sasha knew then that interference only made it worse. This argument wouldn’t end well.

The next day, after Hank left for work, Sasha quietly crept into her parents’ bedroom. She longed to hug her mom, to see if she was okay after the previous night’s turmoil.

“Mom, we can’t keep living like this,” Sasha said softly, lying next to Jane on her bed. Jane’s eyes were weary, the latest bruise a stark reminder of their reality.

“I know, honey,” Jane replied, her voice trembling. “But what can we do?”

Sasha gripped her mother’s hand tighter, her determination growing. “We’ll find a way.”

From that moment on, whenever Sasha glanced at the posters lining her walls, her eyes fixated on the one depicting a bay in Portugal. Though she had never been, the vivid descriptions from her mom’s friend painted a picturesque scene: redstone cliffs, crashing waves, and expansive bays. Imagining the cool ocean breeze through her hair, Sasha found solace in this distant dream. She hoped one day to escape with her mom to this sanctuary far from Hank’s reach.

19:56. The microwave clock was a minute ahead of the analog clock on the wall. Panic surged through her. Which one was correct? Did it even matter? What if he didn’t react as expected? The envelope rested on the table, his name neatly written on the front. It wasn't pristine white but a broken shade with a faint yellowish tint—the pristine white ones always seemed too perfect to her. Nothing is ever that perfect.

A soft click. The analog clock briefly synchronized with the microwave before the latter blinked to 19:57. She decided to approach the door slowly, timing her steps. In reality, timing was irrelevant now. Once the envelope slipped under the door, there was no turning back. It vanished beneath the gap.

Her palms grew clammy. Moving to the dinner table, she tried to maintain a facade of casualness. Would he read it in his study? She envisioned his reaction to each word. Should she wait for him to exit the room before asking? Uncertainty clawed at her mind. She stared intently at the door, every second dragging. Her hands clutched the kitchen table, knuckles paling against its aged wood.

She recalled a cold evening near her thirteenth birthday, the day she decided Hank no longer had a place in their lives. Returning from school to a tense atmosphere, she found her mother struggling in the kitchen to prepare dinner. Hank, home early and already in a foul mood, made his presence felt.

Sasha attempted to stay out of sight, retreating to her room to begin her homework. Hank's voice rose and fell in the background, the words indistinct but the anger palpable. Suddenly, a loud crash shattered the uneasy silence. Sasha's heart raced, and she dashed to the kitchen.

There, she found Hank towering over a broken plate, shards scattered across the floor. Jane knelt amidst the mess, her hands trembling as she tried to gather the pieces.

“What’s going on?” Sasha asked, her voice shaking with concern.

Hank whipped around, his face flushed with rage. “Your mother can’t even set the table without screwing it up!” he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips.

Jane glanced up, her smile strained against tears. “It’s nothing, sweetie. Just an accident,” she said, her voice barely holding steady.

Sasha’s fists clenched in frustration. She wanted to scream at Hank, to demand he leave them alone, but she knew it would only escalate things. Instead, she knelt beside her mother, silently helping to collect the broken plate, her hands shaking with suppressed anger. "Asshole." Her voice was a whisper, but Hank had heard it.

Hank looked at her. She expected rage, but a calm came over him. Slowly his pegs began to show, lips curling towards his eyes. His twisted smile appeared, now, he had a reason. A claw-like grip closed around her neck. If he wanted to, he could snap it instantly, ending her right there and then. "What did you call me, sweety?" The pegs in his mouth, fully visible all the way to the flesh now. He was enjoying himself. Having a reason.

Jane stood up quickly, her face pale. "Hank, please! She didn't mean it," she pleaded, stepping between them. With his free hand, Hank threw her against the kitchen counter. Jane hit it hard, crumpling to the floor, groaning in pain.

Later that night, after Hank had passed out drunk in his chair, there was a knock on Sasha’s bedroom door. Her mom entered with a mug of hot chocolate, topped with mini marshmallows. They sat together on Sasha's bed, the warmth of the drink soothing their frayed nerves in the quiet of the night.

Sasha glanced at her mother, who held her arm awkwardly. The arm was swollen and discolored, an ugly purplish hue spreading from her wrist to her elbow. "It might be broken," Sasha said, her voice laced with worry.

Jane tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "I'm okay. We're going to get through this." Her eyes, however, betrayed her words, showing pain and despair.

The sentence alone frightened Sasha. "How, Mom? How long will we accept this? The way he grabbed me… He’ll lose control one day."

Sasha listened. It was quiet downstairs. Nothing. "He's passed out, isn't he?"

Her mom looked up, the flicker of hope in her eyes dimmed by resignation. "Why?"

"Can't we just run, get the hell out?" Sasha's voice was urgent, pleading.

Jane shook her head slowly, tears welling up. "He'll find us, Sasha."

"Then we need to make sure he can't." Sasha's voice was steady, filled with a cold resolve.

Jane's eyes widened, understanding Sasha's implication. Her face paled, and she took a deep, shaky breath. "We can’t."

Sasha nodded, her face set with determination. "It's the only way to be safe, Mom. For both of us."

Another click, louder this time. The clock read five past eight. The sound came from the door. He had read it; she was sure of it. The door opened slowly.

“Sasha, is this...?” He couldn't finish his sentence. His eyes teared up. He definitely did not see this coming.

She didn’t know what came next. Too many variations ran through her mind. She turned around, hands trembling slightly as she grabbed the knife. With a deep breath, she plunged it in, then slowly pulled it back out. The blade exited. Red. Sticky. For a split second, the sight made her heart race, but she quickly steadied herself, remembering the letter.

Dear Dad,

I know there have been difficult times, and I know I wasn’t always the easiest. But despite everything, the time I’ve spent with you has changed my life in ways I never imagined. Since the night Hank died, things have only gotten better for us. I couldn’t believe Mom tried to hide you from me in those first weeks. I was so mad at her when I found out. The first time I saw you, I knew you were a good person. I never realized you and Mom were this close, but I’m so glad you were there for her. And for me.

I remember the first time you came over for dinner. I was so nervous and unsure of how you would fit into our lives. But you brought flowers for Mom and a travel book for me. It was the first time in a long time I felt a sense of hope. You’ve been patient and kind, always there when I needed someone to talk to.

These past three years have been a rocky road at times, but walking it with you has made the journey worth it. I remember our trips to the park, the times you helped me with my homework, and the nights you stayed up late to talk with me when I couldn’t sleep. You’ve shown me what it means to have a dad. When you married Mom last year, it was the happiest I’ve ever seen her. That moment, you became my stepdad, but I don’t want you to just be that. I want you to be my real Dad.

I’ve done the research and prepared everything. I now need you for the final steps, your signature. So, I would like to ask you: Would you adopt me, so we can become a real family? Me, Mom, and you—as my Dad.

Love,
Sasha

She plunged the knife in again, then turned it slowly, deliberately. This way she could take out the piece of strawberry pie without breaking it. She put it on a platter, almost afraid to face him. She left the plate on the table and turned around towards Edgar.

“Sasha, you really mean this?” His voice was still emotional. Sasha turned, looking directly at him. He held the letter close, his hands shaking.

A tear welled up in her eye. She already knew the answer but hearing it would make it real. “It would mean everything to me.”

Edgar opened his arms, and she flew into them. Tears streamed down Sasha's cheeks as her mom entered, flowers in one hand, holding up her cell phone with the other, capturing the moment. “I take it that’s a yes?” she asked softly.

Unable to speak, he nodded, holding Sasha tightly. Sasha looked over his shoulder at her mom, her deep brown eyes filled with tears.

That night, when Hank drank himself into oblivion, the alcohol had rendered him helpless. Sasha pulled a bag over his head. It was over in a few minutes. Hank’s struggles, the muffled gasps, the final shudder—it all played out vividly in her mind. It was the best feeling ever. A chilling smile crept across her face, lips curling unnaturally, revealing her peg-like teeth.

A twisted smile.