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I halt as my palm wraps around the doorknob.
The door was open.
He is not snoring.
He never leaves his door unlocked, even in New York. I told him that’s just paranoia but he is always so watchful and it's a habit I ended up picking up from him. If he walks in and out twenty times in a minute, he will lock his door every time.
And I have never not heard my father snore. Not even the one time I wanted to go party with friends when I was fourteen and added a sleeping pill to his water. He snored more than usual that night. I ended up staying home just to make sure he didn't die in his sleep.
I shake my head, attempting to get rid of the thought that is now snaking in and registering that heavy feeling in the atmosphere.
He is definitely sleeping. I should let him sleep. Either that or I am too scared and I don't want to confirm my fears.
Today felt like that day when I woke up.
The sun had this awkward tint to it. The air was pricking my skin. There was just something about today that felt off and out of place.
I exhale, now trembling. I might be overthinking it. My father is a strong man who has survived many bad days. Surely, he can make it through some more.
I turn gently to him, “Dad?” I take one brick-heavy step after another and keep at it until I'm standing beside him, “Dad?” I snatch the newspaper article.
Peacefully sleeping.
I exhale, and then my eyes drop to a slight foam by the side of his lips. And there, my fear is staring me in the face.
I scream, my eyes popping and almost dropping from their sockets.
“No…,” I drop to my knees and start to shake him, “Dad?” I shake him vigorously; he’ll wake up. He’ll wake up with a scowl on his face and complain about how I'm disturbing his sleep. He’ll wake up and call me stupid.
My tears start to race down, competing over which eye has more to give out. My heart has forgotten how to beat and is now lodged in my throat, blocking my airflow.
“Dad,” I grab a fistful of the navy-blue pajamas he has on, “Dad, please,” I drop my head on his chest, “Please don't leave me alone.” How can he leave me alone? I don't want to be left alone. I can't be without a father in a world like ours.
I lift my head and for the first time look at the newspaper he was reading before his death. It's the same kind of cutout Benedetto has been pasting around the house. It’s about his father, Benito Corte and his death.
No, no, no.
My legs move before my brain can put the pieces together. It's until I'm on the ground floor and dashing past the door to the driveway, that my brain connects it.
He killed my father. How could he do this to me? This is all my fault. I killed my father.
I brought them here. I brought this on us and now this sociopath has killed my father.
“How dare you?” I rip his sketchbook and throw it in his face, then shove him hard against the chest.
“Rosaline, please,” he sounds drained and uninterested.
“How could you kill him, you sick bastard,” I sob and punch him, my tears blurring my vision and my voice becoming thick with cobwebs forming in my throat around my misplaced heart.
“Killed who?” he cocks his eyebrow.
Of course, he would play innocent to this.
“I know you, I know what you are capable of, you killed my father,” I toss his newspaper cutout at him, “you killed my father,” I launch at him, punching and slapping him anyway and where I can.
“Rosaline,” he slides down from his car and pins my hands by my sides, “What are you saying?” he chuckles. “Why would I kill your father?”
“Because he confronted you for abusing his daughter? Because you are sick and have something to prove to everyone around you.” I'm back to punching him, refusing to look him in the eyes.
