Rock, Paper, Scissors

Even at thirty, I still find myself startled by my own reflection in the mirror. It’s a lingering ghost from an incident long buried in my childhood, one that my sister has seemingly forgotten.

It happened on a stormy evening when we were very young. I was the quiet one, a silent observer, while my younger sister had just started speaking in simple sentences. The adults often commented on my reserved nature, saying, "Look at this kid, quiet as a mouse," but their words did nothing to change my reticent demeanor.

We had an attic in our old house, a place steeped in the melancholy of forgotten years. I would often retreat there, finding solace in its solitude. The worn wooden floorboards creaked under every step, lamenting the countless seasons they had witnessed. Dim light filtered through a small, dusty skylight, casting pale, ghostly beams that struggled to pierce the pervasive gloom. The walls were cloaked in faded wallpaper, its once-vibrant patterns obscured by the passage of time.

In one corner, an ancient desk stood cluttered with yellowed books and brittle letters, exuding a musty odor. The air was thick with the weight of bygone days. Next to the desk, an old rocking chair swayed gently on its own, a silent invitation to delve into the shadows of the past. Across the room loomed a towering, decrepit wardrobe, filled with moth-eaten clothes from a distant era. Each time I opened its creaking doors, the stale scent of forgotten memories washed over me, enveloping me in a somber embrace.

Thinking back now, I can never clearly recall what I did in that attic, but the events of that particular evening are vividly etched into my memory.

As usual, my younger sister came to the attic to find me in the evening, stepping on the creaky wooden floor. She walked very slowly, pausing after each creak. Just as my ears were about to give up on that grating sound, the next creak would come, forcing me to focus on it again. Sometimes, I would even get annoyed, thinking: Damn it, is she walking or dozing off? She's not an old lady; does she need to rest after every step? Finally, she would reach the door, and with a creak, push it open, giving my ears a much-needed break.

She seemed to find comfort in the sunset viewed through the small window or perhaps in the attic’s silence, which suited my quiet nature. However, that evening, there was no sunset. Ominous storm clouds had gathered, casting the attic in an eerie, unnatural twilight.

She sat beside me for a while, then, growing bored, wandered over to the wardrobe, where she began to play a game with her reflection.

She engaged in a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors with her own image, a simple and innocent activity. I watched with interest, thinking to myself, "What a fool, how long is she going to keep this up?" The game seemed harmless enough, yet what happened next was deeply unsettling.

She ran downstairs crying, tripping and scraping her knee on the way. When the adults found her, her sobs were punctuated with disjointed words: "Rock, Paper, Scissors, Rock, Paper, Scissors, not good." They turned to me with harsh eyes, and my father kicked me, his voice laden with irritation, "When you play games with your sister, let her win. Don’t make her cry, you idiot!"

I took the kick silently, my mind still grappling with the unsettling sight of her reflection. My sister’s reflection in the mirror began to act independently, throwing Scissors when she played Paper. The dissonance was striking. She lost the game, but that was only the beginning. As she lost repeatedly, frustration mounted, and her game became more desperate. Her reflection’s actions grew increasingly erratic.

She lost.