“A bit performative, don’t you think?” I ask my father, my breath only slightly hitching as I find my balance.
“I wanted you to see this, my beautiful daughter,” he says with a wide, unhinged smile.
“I see.” The words are a promise as I tear my gaze up to my father’s. His usually well groomed hair is filled with flyaways as anger and insanity practically vibrate inside of his body. The only civilized part of his person is his well groomed beard and suit.
Taking a deep breath, I take the time to center myself. The only way to survive my father is to remain calm.
It’s a lesson I have learned from a very young age, because I watched him kill my own mother when I was six years old. I also had to watch as his men buried her in the garden that’s become one of my favorite places to escape to.
Sometimes, I whisper how much I miss her in the direction of her unmarked grave. She has a beautiful pink rose bush where I tell myself she must be buried, and I make sure the gardener takes care of it for me.
If I’m caught pruning and caring for the roses, it’ll enrage my father. I know where the limits to his benevolence lie.
“She couldn’t stop talking about your fucking dress,” Papa snarls. He hates if I call him anything else, which means I can’t slip up while he’s upset. Some days, he’s fine with how I dress, others he’s on her side. His emotions and actions are mercurial at best.
“She has a personal problem with the color red, and now it’s staining the flagstones.” Beatrix’s life doesn’t mean much to me, despite how long she’s been living in my house. I’m uncertain if it was worth this heavy of a price, but that’s not up to me.
I hate the bitch. Her only decent contribution to the world is her daughter.
“Funny,” Papa chuckles, kicking Beatrix in the stomach. “You hear that, whore? My daughter is fucking hysterical! I hope you remember that when you’re in hell.”
My eyes move to where a knife and a gun are presented to me, and I raise my brows in askance.
“Who else is better to send thisputtanato hell than the one she hates the most, Rosa?” Papa asks. “Before you ask, not only was she talking shit about you, she was also fucking the gardener. We’re going to bury him as fertilizer for your precious garden.”
I must betray some emotion because my father presses the gun into my hand. I’d much rather use the knife as it’s quieter, but I hesitated for far too long.
“Please don’t take it from me, Papa,” I whisper, referring to the garden. Begging isn’t something I should be doing, but he’s spiteful enough to light the entire thing on fire for shits and giggles when he’s in this kind of mood.
“Then take your dress off,” he growls. “Gag her with the very thing she hates, and I’ll allow you to use the knife in my hand to kill her. Come now.”
I can feel the bored stares of my father’s men as I pull the straps of my dress down my shoulders. I’m not wearing a bratoday, and they bounce out happy and perky, not understanding the peril I’m currently in.
“It’s interesting she craved your modesty, yet didn’t think to keep her own clothes on,” Papa growls.
I have no idea if Beatrix’s indiscretion is real or if his jealousy finally got the better of him. It would be better if he didn’t get remarried, so I can get a little bit of peace. I’ll attend any stupid function he needs to attend on his arm as a pretty doll, as long as I get to keep Vero.
I desperately don’t want to lose her sooner than I need to.
He doesn’t mention anything about my cotton black panties, which is a blessing for now. As soon as my dress hits the ground, my knees follow. I keep my eyes from watering with extreme embarrassment as the heat in my cheeks expose me, but I still manage to ball up the material of my dress to shove it into my stepmother’s mouth.
It only serves to further choke her, thereby winning me the prize of the knife in my father’s hand. I exchange the gun for it as I incline my head toward him in thanks, the fingers of my free hand wrenching Beatrix’s hair to expose the mess of her throat.
“Do you have a specific way you’d like for her to die?” I ask.
“Stab her in the eye, Rosa. Let’s get some blood over all that pale skin, shall we, daughter?” Papa suggests. I’ll always be pale compared to him, despite how much time I spend outside due to the sun burning my skin. The truth is I’m more olive toned than pale. It’s a fight I refuse to engage in with my father, especially not when he’s like this. “Franco has the shovel for you to bury her. That’ll be your job alone.”
I force myself to breathe as I lift the blade and stab it into my stepmother’s eye. I do it swiftly, despite the gurgle of her strangled scream, or the smell of piss as she releases her bladder in fear. Death is messier than the blood of the person you’re killing.
It’s everything else as well.
I’m no innocent, and I’m well aware of that. Twisting the knife deep in her eye socket, I watch as her life drains from her body. Even though she wasn’t my favorite person, Beatrix was Vero’s mother.
The reminder is brought home as my stepsister’s skirt snags in the thorns of a bush not far from me. Raising my eyes though my face remains down, I urge her with a glare to get the fuck out of the garden. The farther the better, as long as she’s not caught here.
“Where is my shovel?” I rasp, pulling the amusement from my father’s men. Franco kicks blood in my face, speckling it across my skin.
Now I definitely look like a murderer out of a horror movie.
