Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the staccato drumming in Clara’s chest. Another bill. Another flyer for a pizza place she'd never order from. And then, nestled amongst the junk, a card. Plain white envelope, no return address, just her name, scrawled in a delicate hand. It was a birthday card. Her birthday was in three weeks. She ripped it open, the paper tearing roughly, as though she were tearing apart the sender's fingers. The inside was blank. Just a generic sentiment, wishing her a day of joy. Joy? She slammed the card against the counter. What a joke.
Clara stalked to the sink, the cold tap sending a shiver through her. She scrubbed at a greasy pan, the metal scraping against the enamel, a sound that oddly pleased her. Her jaw clenched. She knew who sent it. Her sister, Sarah, the perennial optimist, the sunshine of the family. The woman who’d stolen their mother’s affection. She pictured Sarah, probably baking some impossibly perfect cake, humming some idiotic tune.
The water was scalding her hands, but she didn’t stop. She imagined Sarah’s surprised expression, the look of injured innocence. Clara's lips twisted into a cruel smile. She would find a way to make sure that the joy would not be felt.