Chapter 28 #2
I try to dissociate, to float outside my skin like I used to when I was younger, but all I see is that knife an arm’s length away. All I feel is fire licking my ribs. All I hear is the warped hum of scripture muttered through tobacco-stained teeth.
The second his fingers slither under the waistband of my pants, something detonates in me hard enough to shake my bones.
No more pain.
No more punishments.
I don’t let myself think beyond that. Rolling hard, ignoring the fresh fire tearing across my ribs, I slam my hand onto the coffee table.
The knife’s cold handle slides against my palm, slick with blood.
Planting my foot, hauling myself half upright even as he snarls and tries to yank me back, I yell.
“You little-”
Driving the blade sideways into the meat of his neck, steel flashes, sinking in faster than I expect, puncturing skin and grating bone.
Hot blood erupts instantly, splattering my face, hitting the wall behind him in a violent spray.
He chokes on his own air, eyes flaring wide, hand flying to the wound.
Wrenching the knife free, I slam it back in higher.
No more pain.
No more punishments.
The mantra pounds in time with my heartbeat as I stab again and again, each plunge aimed just beneath his jaw, each twist tearing cartilage, each withdrawal drawing a new gush of blood that streaks down his chest and baptizes the shards of glass littering the rug.
He tries to speak, but the words dissolve into a wet gurgle, my vision tunneling.
All I see is crimson.
All I feel is the vibration shuddering up the handle each time metal hits bone.
He stumbles backward, knees buckling, but I’m on him before he hits the floor. We crash into the coffee table, splinters digging into my knees and his back. He claws at my arm, nails digging furrows down my forearm, but he’s weak already.
“Silas,” he gasps, voice bubbling with blood, reaching toward me like sudden softness could erase years of torment.
Slamming the blade into the soft hollow above his collarbone, the plea dies as a hiss.
Blood pours across my hands, thick and warm.
It smells like iron, nicotine, and every nightmare I’ve ever had.
Collapsing fully, his head smacks the leg of the toppled table. Straddling his chest, panting, I rain down three more stabs in quick succession.
No more pain.
No more punishments.
The mantra is everything.
His fingers twitch, grabbing at a handful of air before falling limp. Eyes going glassy, he stares at the popcorn ceiling as blood gurgles from the gaping wounds in his throat. It spills over the carpet, spreads under us, soaking into my jeans.
The knife slips from my shaking hand, nearly clattering across the floor, but I don’t let him see me weak.
I shove off his chest and stumble backward until my spine hits the wall, lungs clawing for air.
He coughs once more, a feeble, choking sound, and then there’s nothing but the drip-drip of blood off the edge of the collapsed table.
My pulse still thunders, high and wild, as I press my back to the peeling wallpaper, sliding down to sit in the ruins, watching the life leak out of the man who taught me pain like scripture.
No more pain.
No more punishments.
Blood slicks the carpet, first in blotches, then in a slow, spreading tide that creeps toward my shoes.
I stand there gulping air, lungs raw, knife still clenched.
My hand trembles so hard the blade clatters against my thigh.
He’s sprawled in the wreckage of the coffee table, head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes glassy and fixed on nothing.
Each breath I wrench into my body feels like a stolen thing, like it belongs to someone else.
Chest heaving, I drag both hands through my hair, tugging hard at the roots, trying to find my pulse under the roar in my ears.
I can’t look at him, but I do anyway. His mouth hangs open, gummy threads of spit and blood dribbling down his chin.
Thick crimson pools under his neck, seeping into the cheap rug.
It runs around the shards of broken glass like a river finding new paths. The sight makes bile rise in my throat.
He’s dead.
The thought is just there, as loud and irreversible as the blood soaking into the floorboards.
My heart slams against my ribs, a raw hammering that won’t slow.
Gasping again, chest burning, I snap forward, hands braced on my knees, sucking in whistling breaths.
Tears streak a hot path through the blood on my face.
Wiping them away, the red smears higher.
When the dizziness passes enough for me to stand, the fury swells back up. It doesn’t matter that his eyes are empty or that the gospel murmurs have gone silent. For years he taught me pain. For years he called it God. Now there’s only me and the body of a monster sprawled at my feet.
I snarl something I don’t even recognize and plant my foot square in his stomach.
The kick lands with a dull thud. His torso lurches.
Blood splashes. I kick again, harder. “You hear me?” My voice shatters.
“You don’t get to hurt me anymore.” I slam my heel against his ribs, over and over, each strike punctuated by guttural screams that rip from somewhere I didn’t know existed.
The sound breaks apart, becomes sobbing and rage tangled together.
My foot jams into his arm, his thigh, his chest, each impact a final refusal.
Eventually I collapse backward, legs giving out, dropping to my knees beside the gory wreckage.
My chest heaves in ragged gasps. His blood stains my jeans, my hands, my skin.
The smell of copper thickens. I stare at him, at the emptiness I carved into him, and force myself to keep breathing, keep upright, keep from falling into the void that yawns open in the wake of what I’ve done.
No more pain.
No more punishments.
The mantra loops through my skull as I wipe my face with a shaking hand.
Hugging my arms around myself, I rock once, twice, before forcing myself to stand again.
The living room feels warped, its angles strange, as if the house itself recoils.
Dust floats through a slant of moonlight.
Outside, the world is still disgustingly normal.
Inside, the monster that defined my whole life lies on the floor, and I’m the only thing left standing.
My hands are still shaking when I stumble into the kitchen. Blood streaks to my elbows. His blood. I spot his phone on the counter by an overflowing ashtray. My fingers barely work; I jab at the screen until 9-1-1 flashes back.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asks, voice steady, professional.
Looking at the red crust under my nails, my pulse is a hammer behind my eyes. “I killed my father,” I say, words flat and echoing in the tile room. “I meant to.”
Silence. Static. Then she launches into protocol...where are you, is anyone else hurt, stay on the line.
I pace, toes sticking to the kitchen linoleum with every step, trying to keep my breathing under control.
Adrenaline drains, leaving exhaustion and a gnawing emptiness in my gut.
My stomach growls, loud and pathetic. The sound shocks me.
Hunger is ridiculous after murder, but it slices through everything else.
The dispatcher is still talking. I cut her off. “Do they feed you in jail?”
A pause stretches, hesitant. “Yes,” she says softly. “They will.”
Throat tightening, I stare at the streaks of red on the counter where my fingertips press. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll be waiting.”