Chapter 21 #3
Then, the front door opens.
A man walks in. For years, my mind had scrubbed this moment clean, leaving only a blur of shadow and a feeling of absolute malice. But now, through the haze of the venom, the image crystallizes.
I see the knife first. A heavy, wide-bladed butcher’s knife, the steel dull and menacing, catching the dim, yellow light of the room.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't hesitate. He lunges for Rosalind first. Innocently, Cordelia gives her most sincere apology. "We are sorry we are up past our bedtime. Please, don't be angry."
The sound is what haunts me—a wet, sickening thud.
He drives the blade into her stomach, over and over.
I watch in slow motion as the steel rips through the delicate lace of her birthday dress, turning the pink fabric a deep, bruised purple.
Rosalind doesn't even have time to scream for the first few blows; she just looks confused, her mouth opening in a silent 'O'.
Then it happens—a high, piercing shriek that tears through the room, a sound of pure, primal agony.
Cordelia and I scream too, a synchronized wail of terror that fills the small room. He doesn't stop. He just keeps stabbing, the knife sinking deep into her abdomen, her small body jerking and twitching with every plunge until she’s nothing more than a heap of blood and shredded lace.
He tosses her aside like a piece of rubbish and grabs Cordelia.
She tries to fight, tries to scramble away, her little legs kicking, but he’s too fast. He grips her by the hair, yanking her head back, and drives the butcher’s knife deep into the side of her neck.
I hear the cartilage snap—a dry, cracking sound—as the blade nearly severs her head from her shoulders.
Blood sprays across the floral wallpaper in a violent, hot crimson arc.
He throws her onto the floor next to Rosalind, their dresses soaking up the gore, merging into one great, red stain.
Then, he turns to me.
I’m paralyzed. I can’t breathe, can’t move a fucking muscle. I’m pinned against the wall by a fear so thick I can taste it. I just stare at him, locked in his gaze.
And that’s when I see his face. Completely. Clearly.
It’s him.
It’s my father.
He’s wearing his old brown cardigan, the one with the holes in the elbows, but it’s no longer brown.
It’s splattered with thick, dark droplets of blood.
His trousers are soaked from the knees down, and his shoes are drenched in the gore of my sisters.
But it’s his eyes that break me. They aren't the eyes of the man who bought us cake.
They are dark, hollow voids, filled with a murderous, manic hunger.
He looks like a predator that has finally finished the cull.
And I see my full reflection right in them.
I close my eyes, waiting for the steel. I expect the blade to rip through my chest, to feel the cold metal ending my life just like it did theirs.
But the blow never comes.
He stops. He doesn't stab me. He doesn't even touch me. He just stands there for a heartbeat, breathing heavily, the scent of iron and sweat filling the air. Then, without a word, he turns around and heads into the hallway.
I hear his footsteps—heavy, wet thuds—as he goes up to the attic. I can hear him moving things, the sound of floorboards creaking above me.
I look down at my sisters. Rosalind’s eyes are open, staring at nothing, the light gone. Cordelia is still twitching, a faint, bubbling sound coming from the hole in her neck, her life leaking out onto the carpet in slow, rhythmic pulses. They’re gone. They’re fucking dead.
After a few minutes, he comes back down. The butcher’s knife is gone.
He walks toward me, and for a second, I think he’s come back to finish the job.
But instead, he reaches out and pulls me into his arms. He wraps me in a hug that feels like a coffin.
His clothes, his shoes, his hands—even the skin of his jaw—are covered in my sisters' blood.
I can feel the wetness of it soaking into my pink dress.
"It's okay, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice suddenly trembling, sounding scared and sad. "You're safe now. Papa's here."
I’m still paralyzed, a living doll in the arms of a monster. He carries me all the way to the toy shop, my face buried in his blood-stained shoulder. He picks up the landline and dials 999.
I listen to him sob into the phone, the performance of a lifetime. "Please! Please hurry!" he wails, sounding utterly broken. "I came home... I found my daughters... my triplet girls... they're lying on the floor! Stabbed! Oh god, please save them!"
He tells the operator he saw a man running out of the shop, a man holding a knife dripping with blood. He tells them he’s holding the only daughter who seems okay, but that she’s in shock, that she won't speak.
Suddenly, the living room begins to warp. The blood on the wallpaper starts to swirl, the walls melting away into a void of black.
I gasp, my lungs burning as I’m slammed back into reality.
I’m back in the Sandman room. I’m naked, lying on the cold, gritty black sand. Rhys is on top of me, his heavy body pinning me down, his thick cock still buried deep inside my cunt, anchoring me to the present.
He’s looking down at me, his silver eyes searching my face, waiting.
I start to cry. Not the quiet, polite tears of a girl, but raw, racking sobs that shake my entire frame. I reach up, clutching at his shoulders, my voice coming out as a broken whisper.
"You were right... you were right," I choke out, the image of my father’s blood-stained cardigan burned into my retinas. "It was him. It was my father. He was the one... he was the one holding the butcher's knife.”