Monica quietly slipped out of the room and pulled their wedding album off the living room shelf. Going backwards from the reception to the service itself, Mrs. Gammelthorpe ultimately lingers on one of her and Lawrence running from the church's front doors to the limo in a hail of bubbles and rice.

This time, the difference was glaringly obvious.

Denial and horror possess Monica as she pulled the photo from its protective sleeve. Sneering in the bottom right hand corner was her deceased twin sister Wanda Sherb. Her back turned to the rest of the revelers as they pelt the happy couple with rice and bubbles on their way to the limo.

"You really thought it'd be that easy? Hiding me away like that all these years?"

The two twins regarded each other at ten paces apart, almost like a pair of aggrieved gents of yore set to commence a duel. Despite their almost uncanny resemblance to the other, their clothes, posture, and disposition stood in sharp contrast to the other; while Monica dressed in her usually plain attire and had her hair in a mousey bob, Wanda wore a pressed and figure-hugging explorer's outfit and her hair seemed to flow in graceful layers down her shoulders. In her right hand she cradles the skull of a coyote like a snifter glass, breathing in the seemingly ambrosial contents which she proceeds to gleefully quaff. With a final lick of her lips and a chilling cackle, the more eccentric of the two Sherb sisters circles the other like a vulture as part of her attempt at taunting her over the attempt made at being erased from the family tree.

"Then again, that was always how you were; even as kids, nothing could be out of line or off kilter or deviate from the so-called norm, oh no, no, no. Anything that interfered from your preconceived sense of perfect had to be tossed aside or buried…but things don't stay buried forever, do they mother?"

With each circular procession, this image of Wanda begins to undergo metamorphosis; her frame begins to shrink and become increasingly boyish. Her graceful locks suddenly shorten into a stiff and neatened bowl cut. Lastly her clothes change from the khaki explorer's garb to a more everyday style of brown shorts combined with a mustard and orange t-shirt. Yet that haughty and haunting Cheshire Cat grin remains glued to Curly's face; the only source of light in the otherwise opaque vacuum he and his mom occupy.

"You and Lawrence knew deep down there was something so unlike you in me." Curly said tauntingly. "An antisocial itch no amount of dance classes or patholigization can scratch into oblivion. And yet all these years you tried in vain to stuff me in a little box…"

Curly stands inches away from his mother for a moment, slowly pulling a machete seemingly out of nowhere. Holding the weapon skyward, he smiles one last time before brining the edge closer and closer to his mom's throat.

"Let's see how much you'd love it when I return the favor!"

"AAAAAAAA!"

Monica woke up in a cold sweat and put her glasses on. To say her dream was vivid was a monumental understatement. It had been the same dream she'd been having since her boy's first escape attempt from therapy. From her nightstand, the clock radio beamed back 4:15 am. With a heavy yet relieved sigh, she collapses back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling as Lawrence snores like a sawmill next to her.

Upon returning from dropping her son off at Dr. Bliss' office, the Gammelthorpe Matriarch steels a glance at her husband hard at work before slinking up the attic steps. A fine layer of dust had returned in the years since Curly had been tasked with cleaning everything up in the wake of framing Eugene for pulling the fire alarm. Glancing quickly around the room, Monica breathes easier upon seeing the paintball gun seemingly unmolested in the attic corner. But it isn't until she reaches the giant tarp covering the foot locker of photos and journals that she truly feels assuaged. For upon peeking in, Monica found no obvious signs that the contents which once belonged to her sister had been disturbed in any way, shape, or form.

"He knows nothing." She whispers to herself while descending the steps. "As he should."