Day 19
Sometimes the lie becomes too much. I still remember holding the gun, its handle cold to the touch like the stiffened remains of a cadaver. He stood frozen as well. He had never considered this was even a possibility. Well, who’s afraid now, trembling, wide-eyed like a dog that has just come back from a swim. I wasn’t shaking, and neither were my eyes.
He had money. It was probably the main reason my mother never spoke ill of him. Thou shalt not use the lord’s name in vain as they say. Then again, it could have been fear. I wouldn’t blame her if it was. I mean, what are the odds that she—born with a silver spoon in her mouth, cushioned by wealth even throughout adulthood—could raise two boys about to hit puberty without a father? She needed him more than she needed us, and for a while, so did we.
I could hear the faint sirens trickling in through the crack of the door. Someone must have phoned the police. It was probably mother, though I’m sure her call was more about me than the man who was now on his knees in front of me. I almost started laughing. I mean isn’t it funny? The heroes were finally on the way, just like they were for my real father, always arriving when the killer’s gone or the victim’s dead—blood dried, body cold. That’s the truth, right? The ugly, bitter truth they don’t put on their badges. They’re not the cavalry. They’re just the clean-up crew—vultures.
No one ever believed me. “He’s just strict,” they all said. Strict. Right. Strict is making you mow the lawn. Strict isn’t locking you in the basement for hours with the lights off just because you looked at him wrong. Strict isn’t smashing your PlayStation with a hammer while he makes you watch.
People like to paint the devil as some horned monster surrounded by fire and brimstone, snickering whilst whispering sin into your ear. My stepfather liked to whisper things into my little ear too, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
When life hands you lemons don’t just make lemonade. No, no... peel back the skin, feel the sting as the juice runs through your fingers, and swallow the bitterness whole. Sometimes, the taste of something rotten is the only thing that reminds you you’re still alive.
Bang. (relate this to the tree falling quote)
The sirens were close now. For a moment, I stood frozen in the middle of the room, eyes still fixed on the limp body of my step-father that laid sprawled out like a rotten piece of meat. "So, now what?" The words tumbled out of me in a raspy whisper. I had no answer. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. But at least my brother—my sweet, innocent brother—was safe. That’s something, right? I needed a smoke. God, I needed a smoke.
I dragged my feet up the basement stairs, each step creaking underneath my weight and paused. I about faced and descended back down the steps. I went over to my step-father and bent down to reach into his pockets. Bingo.
Opening the door of the basement, I felt like a plant, forgotten in some dark corner, suddenly dragged into the sunlight—sharp, blinding, and almost painful in its warmth. Like something waking up too fast from a bad dream, still tangled in shadows but starting to stretch, craving the light even if it burned.
My mother was quiet, her deer-in-the-headlights eyes looking in my direction, but not fully grasping what was going on. When she realized it was me, she started sobbing, deep, guttural sobs that made her whole body shake. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
Upstairs, I ransacked my parents’ room, my hands moving on autopilot as I searched for something—anything—that would take the edge off. Cigarettes. I needed cigarettes. I ripped through drawers, tossing socks, papers, and forgotten trinkets onto the floor in a frenzy. Nothing.
There was only one other room, not including mine and my brother’s room, my step-father’s study. The corridor seemed to stretch and narrow at the same time. My body began to feel stiff, my breath becoming heavy, as if my step-father’s hand were constricting my throat. The doorknob was cold. Police sirens echoing as if they were next to me.
The study was spotless, crisp and uncluttered. It looked more like a surgical operating room that had been meticulously sterilized before surgery. The walls were painted hospital white, every corner cut with a scalpel, no dust daring to touch any surface. The order was so sharp, you could cut yourself on it.
Bookshelves stood tall in front of three walls, crammed full of thick and heavy scientific books—all hardcover. The spines of each book lined up like iron bars, rigid and unyielding, towering over the glass desk that was placed in the center of the room. I sensed a dense pressure from the cold facts confined to these walls, scorning and judging my every movement as I infiltrated the chamber.
Underneath the table were a row of wooden drawers. One needed a key. Bingo.
Envelopes. A stack of them, neatly tucked away, six or seven in total. Yellow and musty, and in stark contrast with the rest of the room, they were covered in a layer of dust.
"The answers are bound where minds wander but bodies stay still."
