Prologue:

Sara knew there was something wrong with the Bernsteins the first time she met them. It’s a pity she didn’t realize what until it was too late...

One hour earlier:

It was seven in the morning on Monday, the first day of kindergarten for Sara. She was so excited to start school, she was practically bouncing off the walls. Sara’s mom, Lisa, was trying to think of a compelling argument to get her to change her mismatched outfit, to no avail. “Oh well,” she thought. “I’m sure no one will notice.” Her thoughts were interrupted by Sara squealing. Lisa quickly ran to the kitchen, where she found a red-faced Sara, mouth wide open, screaming for the whole block to hear. “Stop that screaming this instant!,” exclaimed Lisa. After a few seconds, Sara obliged, and responded: “I was so excited for school, I could scream. So I did!” “Alright sweetheart,” said Lisa. “Let’s get you to school, then.”

After the umpteenth hug from Lisa, Sara was finally satisfied. “See you later Mommy,” she called after her teary-eyed mother. Just as Sara was walking up to her classroom, she was confronted by two identical figures, clad in the exact same mismatched outfit as her. They each grabbed one of Sara’s arms and dragged her into the classroom, their long, red-stained fingernails digging into the skin beneath her elbows. “Ow, that hurts!,” Sara exclaimed. “Whatever, cry baby,” the twin on her left goaded. Sara held in her tears, and tried her best to ignore the pain shooting up her arms. When the three girls entered the classrooom, the twins roughly shoved Sara into the nearest seat, and sat down behind her.

A few minutes later, their teacher started taking roll. “Emily Bernstein?” “Here,” responded one of the twins behind Sara. The next person on her teacher’s roll list was Tina Bernstein, Emily’s other half. Knowing the twins names did nothing to abate the gnawing sensation in Sara’s stomach that something wasn’t quite right with them. “Alright class,” her teacher exclaimed cheerily. “Pick a partner to play a game on the black top with!” A mere second later, the twins renewed their grip on Sara’s aching arms. “Let’s go,” rasped one of the twins, in a voice much too deep for a five-year-old. As they dragged her to the playground, the nails digging into her arms seemed to get sharper with each step. At the opening of the slide, they roughly shoved her up to the top, where they simultaneously pulled knifes out of their pockets. “Don’t worry,” they crooned in unison as they leered at her. “We won’t hurt you,” they said as they plunged their blades into Sara’s chest. As Sara’s terrified screams punctuated the air, she realized what was wrong with the Bernsteins. The pungent-smelling red liquid on their nails wasn’t nail polish, it was blood...

Has no real concept of anything

They just push demands around

Caring not for how they impact others.

The torturer always tries to take the focus

By being the most brash person around

Understanding not that others surround them

Because they’re feared

Not loved.

The only love people feel for them

Is the love of escaping

How is it possible they can’t see this?

You ask

I shall tell you...

They are wrapped in a bubble

So dense with hateful musings

Pondering not on everyone

But how useful everyone can be to them

But if you look close enough

You will see

A person who has been taught not to value themselves

So seek validation the only way they can conjure

Through inflicting pain

But conceit has arrested their development

Now they are stuck

In the self created bubble wrap.

Burst the bubble I say

And dip your toes into the sea of your own creation

Then make a vow to change it.

It won’t be easy.

But it will be worth it

I hover over them,

Holding their reigns tight,

Pulling the strings just right

I twist their words,

Influence their actions,

While hiding behind

A thick veil of darkness

I hang back,

Watching as the chaos unfolds

With a victorious laugh

I watch as their lives deteriorate,

Crumbling into nothing

The inner filth of their souls

On display for all to see

I force them against one another,

Tracking the brutal violence

With exuberant glee

Here, I sit on my throne of thorns,

Giggling as despair conquers

All the while,

Not a finger can touch me