Killing someone is exhausting. I found this out the hard way.
I slept half a day without once stirring and waking up. I didn’t dream. I could’ve been a dead person. As dead as Dad, I reckon, curled up in his king-size bed reeking of cigarette smoke and stale sweat and my own vomit. His pillow smelt awfully funny, too, probably because he never washed his hair. Just dampened it with tap water. Yuck.
The shadows were different in Dad’s room, larger and more scary-looking. But somehow I got to sleep, and I didn’t open my eyes until about four o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t go to school, but so what? I have a feasible excuse: I killed someone. Furthermore, I have my period. That makes two feasible excuses. No need to feel guilty. One absent kid won’t make a difference, anyway, I told myself.
Ten minutes later the phone on the bedside table rang. I was still in bed, staring up at the ceiling and the dust on the light fixture. I didn’t answer it. Maybe it’s Mrs Sinclair, I thought. Maybe it’s the principal. Maybe it’s the wrong number.
When it stopped ringing, I flung back the covers and stood. The pain struck me everywhere. The light dimmed and my knees almost buckled. My rump was sore. My back and arms were sore. I hobbled over to the dresser. Even my hips were sore. I studied the battered face hovering in the mirror. It looked very familiar to me, like an old friend.
“Hi, you,” I said. “Long time no see.” I was being sarcastic, of course.
I had no broken bones, as initially feared, but the bruises…
What of them? I asked myself. I’m used to them. And anyway, they’re incidental. Dad’s gone, which means that this is the last I’ll be seeing of them. Once they heal, they’ll be gone for good also.
I lowered my eyes, discovered I was wearing yesterday’s clothes, which were bespattered with Dad’s blood. I hadn’t noticed that particular detail last night. It appeared a crusty brown on my royal blue sweater and faded denim pants. It was also on my hands and wrists, and a little on my neck and face. The blood coming out of my nose was my own.
I got naked post-haste and dumped everything into the washing machine. I stripped the bed as well. Next I tried relaxing in a hot bath. The rising steam made me drowsy. My muscles grew slack. I climbed from the tub and found that I could barely stand. But when I realised I didn’t have a clean change of clothes with me, my body grew tense all over again. The clothes were still in my room, jammed in the dresser drawers and hanging in the closet.
I lambasted myself with my fists for having been so impetuous and neglectful. The last thing I wished to do was go back in there and face the aftermath of last night’s attack. But I knew it wasn’t something I could postpone indefinitely. I knew it had to be done sooner more so than later.
So, even though no one was around to see me, I wrapped myself in a raggedy old towel and crept toward what used to be my bedroom door. Wedged beneath the door was a thin line of yellow. A fan of artificial light stretched across the floor of the passage like a piece of transparent gauze. I thought I saw a faint shadow flitter over it, like the shadow of a bird flying over a lake. Dad’s shadow, coming to get me.
I stepped into that puddle of wan light as tentatively as if I were really stepping into a puddle of water. I gripped the doorknob with fingers like pincers.
Whatever you do, I told myself, don’t look down.
I rushed into the room— charged almost—with my chin determinedly up and my eyes half closed, rounded the foot of the bed and slid the wardrobe door open. I began tugging clothes off their metal hangers, and blindly flinging them over my shoulder and out the door. It became a race against time and a race against being contaminated.
I upended the drawers and swept the objects perched on top of the bureau into a plastic bag. I threw three pairs of shoes out the door into the hallway; I threw my homework and school bag after them.
I sure made a lot of noise, but not enough to wake the dead, apparently.
The stuff I left behind is unnecessary, I decided. A couple of picture frames and cheap paraphernalia. Nothing of importance or worth accidentally copping a look at Dad over. What’s left of him.
The hallway was a heaped mess, like an unorganised rummage sale. I switched the light off, pulled the door shut behind me and breathed out a huge sigh of relief. I was finally done with him. Done with having to look at him and having to deal with him. No more insults. No more beatings.
I am free.
The curtains in (what was originally) my bedroom are drawn tightly shut, so no one will be able to see him from the backyard.
No one, including me.
And I know that the smell will eventually come, the smell that inevitably accompanies somatic death, when Dad’s flesh starts to putrefy and rot. But I think I have the solution.
I’ll burn incense in some of the adjoining rooms. Disguise the smell of death with something sweet and aromatic. I know I’ll have to do something with the body eventually, but I’m not ready to think about it yet.
I dressed warmly, leaving my hair to dry (and tangle) naturally. I made Dad’s— my—bed, and sorted my new room. First, I grabbed all of Dad’s clothes and crammed them into three medium-sized suitcases; I slid these under the bed. Next I hung up my jeans and jumpers and track pants and my uniform. I folded the smaller items—socks, underwear and t-shirts—and tucked them neatly into the drawers.
The top drawer contained Dad’s personal items, including his wallet, his gold-plated wristwatch, a pack of cigarettes, half a dozen lighters, medication (for treatment of peptic ulcers and reflux oesophagitis, whatever that is), and various unpaid bills. The wallet held sixty-one dollars and ten cents, his driver’s licence, and a ho-hum collection of business cards. I pocketed the money and tried on the watch. It fitted nicely.
Before today I’ve never owned a watch—especially one so handsome.
I was about to close the drawer when I noticed Dad’s passbook.
How much do you suppose he has in his savings account? I asked myself.
Very little, I guessed.
For years and years Dad hoarded his money. I never knew exactly how much his supervisory job at the smallgoods factory paid him, but it certainly wasn’t a lot if he was so opposed to spending any of it.
He was stingy. He developed this policy to never buy the same thing twice—unless it was irreparable and an absolute necessity to the household. The TV set is fairly new, but everything else is as primitive as the house. I knew there was definitely more money in it for me. I just didn’t know the precise amount.
I reached into the drawer, picked up the passbook and opened it to the second last page. I wasn’t nearly prepared for what I saw. Fifteen grand!
What’s even better is the fact that I can forge Dad’s signature. I’ve done it before. A few loops here, a dash and a squiggle there. Really, that’s all it will take for me to get myself a new life.
But I’m not silly enough to spend it all at once. Long-term survival is the game. Mum and Dad lost the game. I thought I had lost the game. But now I have this chance to save myself—and to win.
“Fifteen thousand, huh?” I soliloquised. Although excited, I was—understandably—a little peeved. “Talk about being a sneak.”
That’s all history, I thought gladly.
The telephone rang again. This time it went on and on. I counted twenty-two rings.
I hope whoever is trying to get through will give up soon. What if I answer and it’s a friend of Dad’s? Or worse still, what if it’s his boss? What will I say?
I considered disconnecting the phone, but that might draw people to the house. “Where’s your Dad?” I imagined them asking. “Can I come in? I’ve been expecting him at work.”
I was nauseous thinking about it, so in the meantime I won’t.
During the next two or so days I’ll avoid answering the phone. Because in two or so days I predict that my life will be in order, and by then I’ll have figured out a way of handling these minor, looming details.
I haven’t eaten all day. Strangely enough, my stomach is empty but I’m not hungry. There isn’t much food left, anyway, just some two-day old horseshoe rolls, canned fish, and a few litres of soft drink.
Tomorrow I’ll skip school again. I’ll go to the bank and withdraw enough cash to buy some groceries. And maybe I’ll treat myself to a few nice things.
After what I’ve managed to achieve, and all in a matter of hours, I believe I’ve earned it.