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Blood stains his lips. His life seeps away one torturous second at a time. But my conscience remains clear.
I’m killing my father.
No. That’s not right.
I’mmurderingmy father. The termkillingopens itself up for interpretation. There are no muddied waters.
Edoardo Bianchi’s death isn’t an accident. I can’t claim self-defense. I can’t even argue I’m lost in a cloud of insanity. My mind feels clearer than it ever has before. The truth is, I want my father dead, and I have the opportunity to make that desire a reality.
I don’t believe I’m a psychotic killer who craves bloodshed. Iknowdeep in my heart that this is a one-time thing. I don’t know if that makes it any better. Whether you take one life or a thousand is inconsequential, though. If you murder one person, you are forever stained with the ultimate sin.
Still, I’m not an evil person. But I’m also not decent. An honorable human couldn’t look life in the eyes and extinguish it like they deserved that power. Not evil, but not honorable, a mere mist in the middle. No guaranteed place in heaven, but also not deserving to spend an eternity in hell. All this I contemplate as I watch my father bleed out and suffocate under my weight.
My fatherisan evil man. He rules our family with the threat of his fists and will only smile when we cower under his gaze. I hate him. I despise him.
When I’m confident the man on the floor below me is dead, I lift my foot, touching the toe of my shoe to his cheek. I push his head, waiting for a stirring of life to shock me into panic. But it doesn’t happen. His head falls back to where it was, and my bottom lip turns out in contemplation.
Killing someone is a lot easier than I thought it would be.
I move to my father’s drink cart. Picking up a fresh glass, I pour myself a sizable nip. I swallow it down in three deep gulps, grimacing at the burn in my throat.
“Alessia.” Salvatore’s voice carries through the house.
“In here!” I yell back, surprised at how calm my voice sounds.
His footsteps are hurried, and he slams his hands against the frame of the door in shock when he takes in our father’s lifeless body.
“I killed him.”
He steps into the room. “No shit.” He looks up at me. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re bleeding,” he argues.
“He hit me,” I concede. “I think my nose is broken. But it also might be his blood.”
I glance down at the seeping stain of blood beneath my father growing with every second.
“You’re hurt.”
I look back at my brother. “I can’t feel it.”
“You’re in shock.”
“I’m fine.” I deny his claim with a quick shake of my head.
“You’re shaking.”
He gestures to my hand, and I look down. He’s right. The whiskey glass held tightly in my grasp quivers with the tremor in my hand.
“Huh.”
“Lucy?” he asks.
My bottom lip shakes, and I pull it into my mouth. “He killed her,” I whisper, and my voice cracks.
His eyes close in something likened to acceptance. He knew that’s what I would say, and a burst of anger hits me.
