I talked to Graycen. He gave suggestions; maybe
I was bored and needed a career change, maybe I was uneasy about my dad
leaving, maybe I had unresolved trauma, maybe I should see someone. I said no
to everything. I was perfectly fine. My life was great. There was nothing to be
worried about. I had been on edge for so long that my brain didn’t understand
the concept of peace. A slow, kind, soft life wasn’t something I was used to in
the slightest. My entire life tension coiled in my belly like a snake. My muscles
would be tight from anticipation of the next verbal blow. My mind sharpened to
predict the moods my parents would be in. I had to please everyone. A slip of
the tongue, an accidental emotion, and I would tense. The few weeks of quiet I
had in-between fights would feel like a dream. It was like a switch went on and
off in their brains. As I became older, I understood why they were the way they
were, but it didn’t justify their actions. My childhood memories were composed
of bloody knuckles, salty tears, empty bottles flung on the roadside, and half
smoked cigarettes. My fingers twitched.
I joined a martial arts club. I thought I
needed a hobby. I wrapped my knuckles at the beginning of the day and by the
end, someone else’s blood would paint the pristine white cloth. I joined a
psychology class. I ran my tongue over my teeth like a predator. I wanted to
break someone like they broke me. I wanted to watch someone’s sanity slip away
and see the fear in their eyes as they backed away from me. I wanted to be
dangerous. I wanted to shatter a mind like glass. I wanted to feel powerful.
Violence was built into my bloodstream. I bathed in it. It was how I was
raised. I needed the tension like I needed my cigarettes.
Chantel started to retreat into herself. She
became listless and paranoid. She thought she saw Hersh lurking in the corners
of the house. She wanted to sleep with her knives but I told her that was a bad
idea. The last thing I needed was to clean up another mess. Especially one
wouldn’t be able to hide from Ella. She didn’t need to know my true nature. I needed
to protect her from others. She was still so sweet and innocent.
Ella was a growing artist. She took painting
and drawing lessons. She loved gardening and rescuing animals. She was naïve.
The other day a bird fell out of a tree with a broken wing. Its neck was bent
at an odd angle. She asked if we could save it. I told her I would take it to
an animal hospital. I drove away and once I got far enough, I snapped its neck
and tossed it over a bridge. It became a red splat on someone’s windshield. I
wanted Ella far removed from the violence of the world.
The trains rattled by and it started to rain. I
slowly walked back home. I squinted in the torrenting rain. There was Ella with
her bright yellow umbrella.
“Daniel,” she waved.
I smiled and held the umbrella for both of us
as we walked back.
We got back to the house to find Chantel sobbing on the couch. Of
course, her melodramatic ass couldn’t even handle the guilt of killing Hersh. Ella
ran to her mom and held her hand.
“It’s okay mom. He deserved to die,” Ella said.
It was like I got shocked with my own taser. When did Ella find out her
father was dead? Had she known the whole time? She gave me a look as if I was
supposed to do something. I rubbed Chantel’s back as she sobbed. The kitchen
lights flickered and pools of shadow spread like an infection. The hairs on my
arm stood straight. Someone knocked on the door; standing there was the stuff
of my nightmares.
Mom.