I loved my father. But at each thought of love, slitting his throat came to mind. The visions were clear; I could feel the handle of the knife under my curled fingers, tauntingly grazing along his neck, before sliding down to pierce his pure heart. The pulse of the last beats vibrated through my hands. Then I twisted the blade.
Soon it wasn’t a vision anymore. My father is dead because of me.
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Violent . . . interesting but violent.
Oh yes it was violent. And it was personal. When I had dreamed of this, I knew I wanted his death to be close up and personal. I never understood why people shot their victims, or threw them into the ocean to drown, or poisoned them. Where’s the fun in that?
I wasn’t scared. I didn’t regret it. But I didn’t feel satisfied like I thought I would either. It felt different than I imagined it would. The knife didn’t go in smooth. I always imagined it would be like slicing open those cats from when I was a kid. Squishy fat squelching under my blade, warm blood pouring over my hands. But my father was much stronger than a cat. He was a man, full of hard bone that I hard to force my knife through. But I did.
A glint of sun blinded me for a moment. I looked down and saw it reflected off my dad’s cross he wore around his neck. The gold-coloring was chipped from years of wear. When I was a child, he made me go to Church with him every week, even after my mom’s death. I picked it up and felt the rough edges. The raised indentation of Jesus’ lifeless body. Then I jammed it into my father’s corpse, yet still no satisfaction came. I wiped my finger prints off the cross and the hilt of my blade, still stuck in my father. It was time to clean.
[Keep it going!]