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.

I walked over to his body that now laid limp, reached into his pocket and pulled out his box of cigarettes. I guess now is as good a time as ever to start. I used the end of the pistol, still hot from the discharged bullet, to light it.

I had missed. I told the police it was just a warning shot and they didn’t charge me with attempted murder. I was lucky, but definitely didn’t feel that way…

The Whodunit Diaries