Father - A Short Story

 I do not wish Mother was still alive. She became a ghost after that shameful Saturday afternoon many weeks ago when she learnt of Father’s infidelity with the neighbour’s daughter. I could almost see the thick cloud of despondency hanging over her, causing her to mumble to herself in incomprehensible syllables, her eyes perpetually glazed, until I discovered her lifeless body in the bathroom, a kitchen knife sticking out from her chest. I will never forget the look of her pale, stiff corpse, or the pool of dark, sticky blood that haloed it.
Perhaps, nothing annoyed me as much as watching Father strut about unashamedly, brandishing his immodesty like a new knife in the possession of an inebriated fool. For one, he no longer had a reason to sneak out to Annie; Mother was dead. So they shamelessly met in our house, in his room. On one of the nights, I came home to find Annie slicing and stirring in the kitchen, Father told me that mourning is for those who have nothing else to live for. I guessed he meant he had Annie and her mother to live for. Yes, Father had been sleeping with mother and daughter, savouring the taste of both old and new wine. But, you see, I only realised just how depraved he was the night he came to my door. I had just emerged from the bathroom after a hot bath, and was getting ready to sleep when I heard the rude, impatient knock. It was 10:30pm.Whatever it was, couldn’t it wait till morning? I opened the door and Father forced his way into my bedroom, eyeing me suspiciously. I shuddered at his lack of decorum. I was wearing a see-through nightshirt with nothing beneath it. “Why are you hardly dressed? It’s raining. Aren’t you cold?” When did Father begin to care? “I’m not. The windows are shut. The curtains are drawn too,” I answered coldly, hoping it would suffice, and he would just turn around and leave me alone. “Ah! Interesting!” he exclaimed, as he sat on my bed. I saw a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there when I opened the door, and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. I swallowed and took deep, silent breaths. “Father, please leave,” I said, mustering all the courage that hadn’t already evaporated, gesturing toward the open door. He just sat there staring at me. I would have thought he hadn’t heard me, had he not started laughing scornfully. “Get out now! Out!” I barked at him again. Slowly, he stood up and walked to the door as I held it open for him, my hand firmly gripping the doorknob. He turned around, shoved me hard to the floor, and closed the door with a bang, all in a flash. I heard the lock engage. “Please, Father! Please, no!” I begged, struggling to get up from the floor, wisps of my hair irritating my eyes. The monster did not budge. When he came for me, I didn’t resist. I could never win a struggle with Father, and no amount of pleading would erase that evil look in his eyes, that ferocious determination. His big arms easily seized me around the waist, and threw me on the big bed. "Don’t worry. You’ll soon come to enjoy this,” he said, a devilish smirk playing across his face. He ripped my nightshirt off in an instant, his right hand coming to rest on the swell of my left breast. My breath caught in my throat. As he forced himself in, I winced. He stopped for a while, letting me get used to him, and then he slid in completely… I realised that day, just like Mother, that I am not strong enough. Father shamelessly knocked on my door almost every night after that, until I stopped locking it. So when he left my bed early this morning after staying the whole night, I knew I would kill him. Right now, I sit in a plush chair and watch his body convulse as a fountain of his blood spurts hotly, bright and red. The hilt of the kitchen knife I used to end his miserable life stands proudly from his chest, like a victor’s flag on newly conquered territory. I smile, knowing I have conquered. The twitching has stopped; only the flowing river of red remains, weaving its way across the tiled floor, one of its streams soaking the soft Persian rug. I have never seen anything so beautiful, so red. There is something intoxicating, empowering even, about spilling blood, especially when it is your adversary’s. It feels good to think of Father as an adversary, a vanquished adversary. I feel Mother’s warm presence fill the spacious living room, enveloping me in a blanket of love. It seems as if I can reach out and grab her, and never let her go again. But I know I can’t, and it hurts me to know this. It hurts me to know that I will never feel her touch again; I will never walk with her and hold her hand or carry her bag. I will never hear her voice again, except the voice I hear in my head sometimes, that speaks to me but has no sound. As I sit here and watch Father’s stiffening body, my legs and arms crossed, I cannot help the feeling of accomplishment that washes over me, overwhelming me, humbling me. I have prevailed. Mother must be proud. The only thing I worry about, though, is Father's child growing inside me.