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She unfolds the crumpled white tissue from her hand, wiping it across her face. “Your father…”
My eyes narrow, thinking he’s done something to her, then widen.
Uh-oh.
I shove her arms away from me, bolting out of the dining room.
“Dad!” I shout, passing officers that watch me with a look of sorrow.
I ignore them, my hand gripping the bannister as I pull myself up the stairs.
“Dad!” I shout again, my feet pounding as my voice echoes through the halls.
“Miss, you can’t!” An officer bolts down the hallway after me, covered in a white sanitary suit that swishes with each step. I sidestep him, bolting around him and down the hall.
I make my way into their bedroom, my eyes cutting toward the bathroom. The yellowdo not crosstape is in front of the door, and I feel as if I’m walking in slow motion as I step through it, the tape stretching across my waist before it breaks, fluttering to the ground.
“Miss, you can’t go in there! It’s an official crime scene!” The voice comes from behind me, and all I can hear is his voice that sounds as if it’s coming through a tunnel, muffled and delayed, every letter stretched out.
My hand slaps against the wall as I step toward the shower, my shoes slipping on the still wet floor. My eyes widen, my jaw falling open as I stare at the opened shower door, blood streaks slipping down the walls. It looks like a horror movie.
So much blood.
My mouth gapes, and I’m sure I look like a fish as it opens and closes, a gasp breaking free from my throat as I step closer, seeing an arm flopped to the side.
“Dad?” I croak, tears blurring my vision.
“Miss!” The shuffling of feet enters the bedroom, and an officer knocks into my side, pulling on my arm.
On instinct, my eyes widen, and I rear my fist back, bringing it forward and knocking into the man’s face. His head snaps back, and when he brings it forward, his eyes are narrowed in irritation.
He grips my arm tighter, and it only makes a fire light under me.
“Get the fuck off me!” I scream at the top of my lungs. We end up in a tussle, where he’s pulling me, and I’m shoving against him. My foot goes up, and I kick him in the shin, in his stomach, everywhere I can reach. He gives me a hard pull, and my feet slip. My body goes horizontal, flying up in the air before my back slams against the tiled floor.
Air shoots from my lungs as they refuse to cooperate. My hand curls around the rug in front of the shower, sopping wet. I pull it toward me, and my father comes into view from the waist up. His eyes are open, his head lying on his shoulder as he stares at nothing. Blood trails from the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and though I can’t breathe, can’t make a sound, my body cries.
My soul cries.
His stomach has large stab marks, his skin stained red, a pool of diluted blood soaking around him as his limbs splay awkwardly.
My body is hauled up the same moment my breath comes back to me, and I let out a scream as they haul me from the bathroom.
Though I can’t tell whether my scream is one of torture, or elation.
And I don’t know which one hurts worse.
“Lakyn. Lakyn!” my mom’s voice screams from outside of the bathroom, her eyes widening when she sees me. I glance down, seeing my body stained with blood.
How? How did I get blood on me?
My mom grabs onto me, pulling me into her arms. “I didn’t want you to see that,” she sobs into my shoulder.
“I did,” I whisper, though I don’t think anyone heard a word I said.
They pull me away from the bathroom and back down the stairs. Fresh towels come over my shoulders as I’m sat in the dining room, on one of the expensive foreign chairs they had custom-made, effectively staining it, I’m sure.
They talk to me, though I don’t listen.
