Redemption

It’s over. I did it. After years of hiding bruises and lying about the reason behind broken bones, I did it. I did what my mother couldn’t do; what she wouldn’t do. Blinded by a false sense of loyalty, of love. But I don’t suffer from delusions. I see him for what he is; or was, rather. A monster. Maybe if she would have stepped out from behind her shield of denial she would be here now. Liberated. Like me. But no, she wasn’t strong enough. Like me.

I stand at the foot of his bed staring at his lifeless body. Thankfully there’s not much mess. It’s contained to the mattress. The pillow. The headboard. My labored breathing escapes my lips in whispers. The house is silent around me, keeping the secret of what I have just done. These walls are good at that; the keeping of secrets. They have had a lot of practice.

It was a peaceful way out for him. Asleep, he didn’t see it coming. He didn’t even feel it. Which is more than he deserves. It was more than he gave my mother. But, unlike him, I am not cruel. I am not evil. I am humane. I simply put him out of his misery. More importantly, I put him out of mine.

Tears spring to my eyes as flashes of my mother’s funeral rip through my mind. Black dresses. Sniffling noses. Kind words. Hands patting condolences onto my father’s shoulders. Hands shaking I’m so sorry for your loss into his palm. Me, hiding in the corner staring daggers into his back, wishing it was him in that wooden box instead of her. But what those comforting looks and well wishers didn’t realize is that he put her there. He beat her into a corner where her only escape was an orange bottle of little pharmaceutical saviors. Eighty little white angels sang to her a song of salvation and she flew away with them. She flew away from this hell. And left me here.

That night my backside made good friends with my father's belt. Every pore of that leather strap screamed to me tales of his grief. With every sting of contact I cursed my mother. One. How could you leave me? Five. Why didn’t you save me? Eight. Make it stop. Ten. Make it stop. Twelve. Make it stop.

Someone is sobbing. Someone is gurgling in their snot. It’s me. My hands shake so violently that my attempt to wipe my nose with my forearm results in mucus spreading like peanut butter across my cheek. Another sob racks my body, punctuated by the sound of something metal hitting the floor. I dropped the gun. His gun.

I sink to my knees, resting my head against the foot of the bed, and stare at my trembling hands. My hands no longer tethered by the chains of my father. They don’t know what to do now that they no longer have to be clenched in apprehension, in fear. So I watch them shake. They shake like the wings of a butterfly having just emerged from the confines of the chrysalis.

Time passes. Minutes, hours; I’m not sure. My feet tingle as they asphyxiate beneath the weight of my body. I push myself up off the floor and wobble out of the room and down the hall. Feeling has yet to return to my feet and I feel like I am floating down the stairs. I suppose in a way I am floating, on redemption.

Yellow sunlight drifts lazily in through the windows, baking away my tension. Even though I am unsure of what will come next for me I am filled with a sense of purpose. No longer am I living under the weight of oppression. No, I took care of that with nine millimeters of brass and gunpowder.

Cars pass down the street in front of our house. People walk their dogs, check their mail. They are blissfully unaware of what has been transpiring right next door. The world keeps turning, even though to me it feels as though it came to a screeching halt years ago.

In the driveway sits my father’s police cruiser. The paint is shiny and clean. The grass is edged, the shrubs pruned to perfection, and the driveway pressure washed. Nothing is out of place; on the outside. Nobody would suspect that the pillar of the community that was my father was actually a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If only he actually was the man that everyone outside our home believed him to be. Home. That word is a farce. The last thing this house ever was was a home.

The silence is deafening now. Silence, my old friend. Silence means you’re safe. It means a reprieve from cruel and cutting words. It grants amnesty from the fists and belts. I know the peaceful quiet won’t last forever, so I drink it in. I eat it up.

One last look around the house shows me everything that I won’t miss; empty cans and bottles, broken furniture left over from last night’s tornado of rage. Pictures of our family hang crooked on the walls. My mother’s giant fake smile. My naivety. The gleam in my father’s eyes that dared someone, anyone, to ask questions. They never did. They didn’t want to know, blissful in their ignorance.

I could run and hide somewhere, stake out a new identity; a new life. I could, but I won’t. I want people to know who my father really is. What he really was. I want people to know that I took care of myself. I made it so he can’t hurt anyone anymore. Unlike my mother who saved herself and left me to fester in the poison that was her husband.

It’s time to open up all the windows and doors and call forth the fresh air of deliverance. It’s time to hang my family’s dirty laundry out on the line. The carpet makes a hush hush hush sound as the soles of my feet carry me toward the kitchen, but I will not be deterred. The world must know the truth.

The phone sits cradled in the grimy old base on the kitchen island. A red light blinks, indicating there is a new message. I hadn’t even heard it ring. I don’t even bother to check it. I am on a mission.

With iron resolve I remove the phone from its home and thumb three numbers, preparing in my mind my confession. Forgive me father for I have sinned.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I just shot my father.”

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard