The clouds looked like large, lazy puffs of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, sharply contrasting with the royal blue sky. The creamsicle colored streetlights illuminated the falling raindrops, which landed with big thwap thwap thwap noises on the ground. The air felt damp and heavy, and it carried a waft of rotted fish with every deep breath. Despite my eagerness for sweet air and dry feet, I took my time walking home and resentfully reached in my pocket to pull out my house key, fumbling through the small, bumpy plastic bag and some spare change.
My house looked dark and alone, an outcast on the bustling street, which was filled with the soft glow of front porch lights and sounds of life. I placed my key in the slot and shoved open my heavy front door, a movement accompanied by a painfully loud creak. With shaking hands, I quickly bolted the door shut, shook it once or twice, and turned the handle to ensure that it was really closed. It wasn’t our safety I was concerned with. I had to make sure he couldn’t escape, and the locks that were installed were placed high enough that he would never be able to reach it with his dead legs. I carefully wiggled my wet shoes off on the nearby mat, then entered my family room in my old, white socks. I slid along the dusty tile as if I were slipping along a patch of hidden black ice.
There he was, sitting by the lumpy, shit-colored couch, seemingly transfixed by the television’s blue lights dancing around him. He looked as if he’d aged within the few hours since I’d seen him last. With his scruffy beard and wild, untamed mop of hair, he could be mistaken for a homeless person. His legs sat there, motionless and permanently bent, an ever-present reminder of his inability to walk. I wouldn’t dare let him leave this house, for fear of the neighbors knowing who he really was. Their perfect world could not be compromised by this man and his shattered life.
“Hey Dad,” I yelled out, having to compete with the Channel Seven News anchor, “how are you feeling today?”
“Shut the fuck up, you ugly bitch!” he hissed at me, coughing furiously as soon as the words left his mouth. Nothing had changed, not that I was expecting it to anyway.
Meatloaf, no onions, side of ketchup, mashed potatoes not too creamy with the skin on, and a tall glass of frosty milk. It was served on a splintery wooden tray placed on his lap, just as Jeopardy was coming on. I would set it on his tray, and his only response would be “You worthless piece of shit, I never wanted you.” His verbal abuses stung more than any beating he would have liked to give. Every night it was the same meal, the same way. That’s how it had to be. That was the last meal she made before she walked out just a few years ago.
The tray was all set up and laid out neatly in front of me, ready to deliver to him. I knew this was my chance, the one opportunity I had to improve my life. I wouldn’t have to run home after work, knowing that if I was just one minute late I would have to deal with him. His mean words would never again spit out at me like hot embers from a fire, silently stinging me, knowing that I had no way of fighting back.
I dumped the cyanide out of the little plastic baggie in my pocket and smashed it against the counter, grinding it up so that it became a thin coating of powder. I spent an hour putting it together earlier, careful to not get any on my skin. Carefully, I had pulled apart one of his sleeping pills, and inserted the deadly poison inside of its shell. It would compliment the potatoes nicely, I thought, as I folded up a napkin for the tray. My stomach was spinning, and I began to question my plan. Was it foolproof? Where will I go once I know that I can never return to the place I have called home for the past 18 years?
I picked up the wooden tray and used my leg to kick open the wooden door which separated me from his never-ending spitfire of insults. I glanced back one last time at the spill of medicine on the counter, and assured myself that the decision I made was the one that, for the time being, was the right choice.
He ate ravenously, as if he hadn’t tasted the same food just the night before. I sat next to him in the patched, second-hand armchair, watching him carefully, observing every morsel of food that was being greedily inhaled by his wet, chomping mouth.
I lay in bed that night and wondered if what I did was right. Nobody deserves to be treated like he treats me, but he is my father, I thought as I sought rest. The soft glow of the moonlight slowly poked through my fluttering shades as I tossed and turned, drifting in and out of a restless sleep.
The harsh chime of my alarm clock jolted me out of the little sleep I received the night before. I slowly got out of my bed and got dressed; my heavy eyes were disagreeing with the bright light that engulfed the dusty room. The stairs creaked their usual good-mornings to me and I thumped my way down them, eager to get out of the damp, musty house and into the blinding sunlight that was the new day. Glancing in the family room I noticed my father, slumped over his tray of crusted mashed potatoes and a milk glass with froth still clinging to its sides. I locked the door behind me as I stepped onto my shaky front porch, assuring myself that once he woke up he wouldn’t be able to escape from his indoor prison. I put my key back in my pocket and felt the crumbled up remainders of an abandoned murder. I decided to keep the crushed up remnants as a memory, and as a backup, just in case I found the strength to end my miserable home life in the future.
