Rock, Paper, Scissors by R.S. Nelson

“Rock beats paper,” my baby brother Matthew used to say when we were kids and played ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ in the locked closet, the light bulb illuminating our skinny fingers, our bodies crammed together in the suffocating space. “No, paper beats rock,” I’d correct him like a good older sister, wrapping my hand over his tiny fist for the hundredth time, just like Mom taught us when she was alive and we were free to roam around.   

Growing up, I was tempted to run away, but I thought of Matthew, alone… with Dad. That stopped me every time. When Matthew finally turned eighteen, we both left the house. We got jobs, found an apartment, and for a while it was great, starting anew, just the two of us. But Matthew couldn’t leave the past behind. After he found out that Dad had a new family, he spent hours hiding behind the bushes of Dad’s new house, watching him laugh and play with his new kids.

I begged Matthew to stop and come home with me, but he wouldn’t listen. 

Once, when Dad was having dinner, Matthew grabbed the big rock by the front door, the one hiding the house key, and hurled it at the bay window. Dad might have let it go if his new kids hadn’t been playing near the window when the shattered glass flew into the living room, covering their heads, their faces, their tiny hands.

When the judge served him his sentence, Matthew remembered that paper beats rock. He tried to appeal, arguing insanity, but since he didn’t tell his lawyer or the judge or anyone else about the long hours we spent in that closet, hearing our stomachs roar, tasting the cracks on our lips, smelling our soiled bodies, the judge denied his appeal.

Dad was in court that day, probably to ensure we wouldn’t say a word. Or maybe because he really wanted to see Matthew locked up, along with his secrets, kept far away from his new life. If Dad had only known his son, he wouldn’t have been afraid. Matthew was always good at keeping secrets; I know because he didn’t tell anyone I was next to him when he threw the rock.
Maybe that was why I found the courage to appeal to what was left of Dad’s humanity, begging him to drop the charges against Matthew, before it was too late. In reply, he gave me his arrogant smile, the same one he used to show us who was in control. 

When I left the courtroom, I thought about Matthew, locked up again, alone, and then I thought about Dad’s new kids.

The more I thought about them, the more furiously the rage bubbled under my skin. So that night, I grabbed Dad’s house key from under the rock and stabbed his face in the family portrait, slashing the canvas with the scissors again and again, until I couldn’t move my arm anymore. When I left, cold sweat dripped down my back and my hand bore the marks of the steel blades, but laughter grew inside my head, spreading like the roots of a tree.

Dad didn’t call the police this time, but he stayed locked at home and got rid of the key and the rock by the door.

I guess he forgot there are bigger rocks everywhere. 

When Dad went jogging in the canyon one morning, I followed him. He was fast, but I was faster. Rock might not beat paper, but it can certainly beat you senseless. It might even break open a head, making it look like someone tripped and had a terrible accident.

When I went to visit Matthew in jail, we played “Rock, Paper, Scissors” in silence, as an homage to the things we endured, and overcame. As always, I chose paper to wrap around his rock.

But this time, he chose scissors.

​© 2026 R.S. Nelson

About the author:
R.S. Nelson is a Latina writer who lives and finds inspiration in Southern California. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, SciFiSat, Every Writer, Twin Bird Review, the podcast Tales to Terrify, and elsewhere. You can find more of her stories on her website: [email protected]