She reached her tiny, chubby arm up towards the dangling sparkle, fingers opening and closing like a lazy clam, trying to grab hold of the pretty thing. It clinked and clanked, but no matter how she stretched, she couldn’t reach. Easily giving up, she instead grabbed her foot in the footie pajamas she wore. She still was little and stupid, and I almost couldn’t stand it. It almost made me force my way out, but in a way it amused me as much as it amused her. Mostly it just angered me, her stupidity, but whenever I tried to come out and complain before, all I could do was cry and scream. Useless baby. Only because she hadn’t learned to talk could I not talk. With a sudden renewed sense of desire, she stretched up her hand and enclosed the shiny object in it, pulling hard until it fell into the crib.

“Angeline, no!” That came from our mama. She and our daddy called her Angeline. They called me Angeline too, but they didn’t know that I wasn’t. It was kind of hard to tell us apart yet when neither of us could speak. Angeline tasted the sparkly thing only for a moment before it was yanked out of her grasp. I could see mama’s face blurrily looming over Angeline’s and fought to get out. Angeline began to whimper.

“Oh, no, little one. You’re okay. You’re fine. It’s me, your mama. I’m here.” Her voice was sing-songy in her attempts to calm Angeline. But the harder I fought, the louder Angeline cried until finally she shrieked and I fell back into her sub-consciousness, weighted down from exhaustion. Her tears slowly ceased. Damn. Next time.

By the time Charlotte was nearly a teenager, I’d merely accomplished escape during the worst of occasions. Angeline seemed only willing to retreat then. Always breaking out in time to receive the sting of a huge, heavy hand hit my cheek, much sharper than the blurry world I usually experience, and giving way to Angeline once more when the smart had gone out like a flickering candle, I wondered how mama and daddy could love Angeline, yet hate me. Through the years I observed while daddy took Angeline to the park to play on the swings and slides and mama tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, never able to escape when they expressed their love. Angeline’s will grew weaker over the years, but I never grew quite strong or motivated enough to fight my way out and take over control of our body. That is, until her eighth birthday.

Mama smiled as she carried out the flaming cake. Setting it on the table, she wrapped her arm around daddy’s waist. I decided to get out. Charlotte never screamed as she used to when she was younger. Our parents began to sing.

“Happy birthday to you…”

My vision clarified again as I pushed Angeline out of the way and took her place.

“Happy birthday to you…”

I smiled up at my parents as they sang to me. Finally a time that I could receive the love I deserve, love that, so far, only Angeline has gotten. I could take what’s mine and never have to give it back. Basking in the glow of the candles, I soaked it up.

“Happy birthday dear Angeline…”

Their loving eyes still smiled down at me, but they looked to me more mocking than loving. Candlelight flickered across their faces, causing them to look evil, like two grinning, malevolent demons from hell. They looked like they were trying incredibly hard to hurt me with that one word.

In a rage, I leapt up from my seat, screaming. Something heavy found its way into my hand as I lunged at them, swinging my arms wildly. Before my vision could be engulfed by bright, white light, I watched terror drain into my parents’ faces. Before long my anger fizzled out and I could see again. I stood over their bodies as they bled out from their crushed skulls onto the linoleum floor, staining the nice white a garish red. Looking down at my hands I saw a gift, wrapping torn open and bloody. I had down this. I looked resentfully down at my parents.

“I’m not Angeline.”