Bonnie Machete

Don't Speak Of Her

Nighttime had fallen by this time. Vincent was yet again stuck within the wooden & brick borders of his home under the close observation of his fearful father. Dinnertime was greatly feared by Vincent, as this was the one time in the day he would have to sit with Roger for an unsteady amount of time. Vincent couldn't have prepared himself for what would happen that night, which later proved to be one of the quickest yet most frightening nights of his life.

Vincent sat at the table quietly, avoiding eye contact with Roger as much as possible. He would often stare down the walls or dining room paintings as if they were the first of its kind.

He looked over to his right where a white shelf housed various small vases and houseplants. But a new item had been placed next to a small red vase on the shelf - an item Vincent swore he had never seen before, but looked so familiar.

It was a picture frame of the him and Roger, only it was from eleven years ago when Vincent was about two. There stood the Sullivans, a normal-looking family from a first glimpse. Only something stood out to Vincent - a tall, pale, frail woman who looked to be in her mid twenties stood beside Roger dressed in a dark-coloured dress. The woman's face had been burnt out, as if someone had lit a flame over the photo leaving a hole where the woman's face once was.

It took a lot of courage to ask his father who the woman was. He isn't drunk, so hopefully... he's nice about it...

"Hey...dad...?"

The old man glanced up from his own meal, his sickening lifeless grey eyes meeting with Vincent's vibrant dark brown eyes.

"-Hmm..?"

Vincent swallowed a knot in his throat. This man was dangerous. Asking the wrong questions often lead to dire bruises or broken windows.

"Who's the woman in the photo?" Vincent pointed to the picture frame on the shelf as it casually collected dust and floating debris.

Roger paused for a moment, leaving the room completely silent.

"That's your mother."

He answered swiftly as if not wanting to stir a conversation, but it only left Vincent with more questions. Vincent for whatever reason became oblivious to who he was talking to. He wanted to know more about the mother that was never there when he needed her.

"What happened to the photo? Why is her face burnt out??"

Roger very quickly became agitated, although not entirely by Vincent's curiousity. His grip on his utensils tightened tremendously. He all of a sudden had an outburst.

"Your mother was a cheating whore! She never loved you!"

Vincent was completely taken back by this. Not by the random outburst, those were common. But about what he had said about his mother. In that moment though Vincent was willing to roll his dice and stand up for his own side thanks to the support and courage that came from his friends earlier that day.

"Who is she? Where is she now?? Did she leave you??"

Bang!

Roger had slammed his fist onto the table, knocking down one of the candlesticks that once stood on the table before. Silence grew over the room like a smoke cloud. In a swift panic, Vincent sprung out of his seat and fled the room.

"VINCENT!"

He ran through the hall, flew into his room and slammed the door shut behind him. He jumped onto his bed and leaned against the corner of his room, tucking his knees up to his chest.
He covered his mouth with his shakey hands, desperately trying his best to silence his heavy breathing. He tried to listen for his father's footsteps, whilst repeating in his head over and over:

You should not have done that. You should not have done that. You should not have done that.

Fleeing from Roger was a death sentence on its own. Vincent ran from his father once before when he was eleven and his punishment was so cruel and painful he swore on his own accord to never speak of it, not even to himself. He heard his irritated father's heavy footsteps walking, but it wasn't towards his room.

It was headed outside.

The footsteps were quickly followed by the house's back door opening and his pacing through the untrimmed grass of the backyard.

Vincent was in tears at this point. Though doing his very best to silence himself, he could hear his own wheezing and weeping. What was Roger doing?

Roger's footsteps seize to exist. Vincent mustered up all of his courage and pushed his weak knees down, shifting himself towards the edge of his bed towards his bedroom window that looked out to the yard.

With his room only lit by the moon's reflection and not a single noise being made other than his loud weeping and crying, Vincent peered out the window of his room. Cold shivers ran down his spine.

It was dark outside, however the moon illuminated the grass Field with a soft blue light. From there he saw Roger locking the shed up again, carrying the very 'tool' he feared the most.

The large 14" Latin machete.

Roger then tilted his head directly facing Vincent, face illuminated by the moon revealing shadowed sunken eyes with an evil intension. Vincent immediately ducked under his window and held his mouth shut tighter than he's ever held it before, eyes pouring out tears like a leaking fountain. There he sat for what felt like hours, shaking and crying loudly to himself. He pulled out the hair pin from his breast pocket.

He squinted, held the hair pin tightly against his chest and closed his eyes tightly, tears flooding out along with shakey heavy breathing.

He thought about the only 3 people in his life that made him feel safe: Bonnie, Nancy and Jones. One of them was always around to help out - but no one was here now.

Vincent sat in the darkness, alone, shaking and crying, cursed by his own mind and doomed by his own words.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die!! ...