My Dad's dead

He's Dead

He was dead, he was gone, forever. Many cried over the death, many mourned, many took it way too hard for me to believe they actually felt that much sympathy. But see the thing is I didn't cry, I didn't mourn, I didn't take it hard at all or rely on him at all and that's because well...

I killed him, murdered him, call it whatever you want point is that he is dead and deserved it. And I couldn't care less about those who suffer from his death; well they deserve it if they do but so what if they don't.

I still remember it clearly the night I killed him. I was angry, angry at everyone for always treating me differently as if I was dangerous, welp I guess I was but he stood out when I looked at the rest, hell by his rules holding a pair of scissors called for a beating that took days to recover from. And so maybe on the way to my house I found a knife or maybe I bought that knife but I remember becoming the murderer when i stabbed him in the back. The blood slowly oozing out of his body staining my hands put me in a euphoric state of accomplishment and fulfilment , his corpse in front of me was on the verge of death impaled with the dagger. His state just helped me prove to myself that he was dead but it wasn't enough not for the voices in my head anyway. So I pulled the knife out of his body. It trickled with blood, some dripping back into the cluster of blood that had formed on his stomach. I then as if almost on instinct pushed it back into the already dead frame, yet again creating another rupture. It made me feel good in a sense I can't explain. It gave me a sense of satisfaction and power so much. It was overwhelming. It Gave me life, I was given the energy to do anything but instead it made me want to lift the knife back out of his body and stab him again causing yet another wound, after I pushed the knife into him until the knife had reached the end of the blade and was coming onto the handle, I sat there admiring what I had done to him grinning like a madman. I soon felt the urge, the push for fullness, for the pleasure and like the monster I had become I pulled the knife out of his body and stabbed him again and again; the feeling of bliss and pride hitting me like a bus, it was drug-like, my eyes rolling to the back of my head when I felt it again. The corpse had become a bloodied mess. It was an accurate representation of my feelings towards him.

Once I felt the push as I had called it go away and the adrenaline wear off, I figured that I needed a place to put the body and a story of how he died. Laying out my options I realised I was screwed ; the thing is, I didn't have many I had to lay out all my possible verdicts could play out to and it was thing after thing after thing.

I resolved to throw him in the town river seeing as it was the easiest and had the most coverable story. I would say that he had gotten pretty drunk and had come into my room around 1:00 AM and that he was going to go for a walk and never came back.
Dragging his body into his car and using it to drive to the river was not a very nice ordeal probably because I sat on top of his corpse because I had to make it look like he drove himself somehow. When I finally got to the place I called a home I decided that the logical thing to do would be to clean so I washed the blood off the wooden flooring in his now messy office, then washed my hands and the knife, buried that shit 6 feet under 'cause I ain't getting caught and then changed my clothes and threw the bloodied ones in the wash with 10 litres of bleach cause what's more suspicious than throwing away the clothes you were wearing the day your dad died and clothes your friends have seen you in.

Now you might be asking, did the man I called a father not put up a fight; well I have an answer for that and it is that being the 'lovely' person that he is he was helping out in the town garden earlier today and then had an online business meeting to discuss finances, it was online because we live in the rural areas of a big city. But anyway long story short he was exhausted so no he did not put up a fight especially because he didn't see me coming.
I then went to sleep soon after arriving back home as the adrenaline was running off, and I had ran back home and left his car by the river so that maybe it would be assumed that he drove it there so naturally starting to feel tired I passed out.
The next morning I called the police station; telling them my story and acting panicked and worried.

I pretended to mourn after that, telling the police that he looked drunk to the point where you would randomly collapse. They all believed me of course, but what was even funnier is that they felt pity for me like actual sorry, for me, on the contrary I was hysterical. I got to live without control and that abuse me ol' man gave me with just the old pop in of a neighbour. I got a month off school because in a town like ours 'you didn't need education', apparently and I think they also said something along the lines of 'recovery time' to 'heal' after what had happened.

It also took them that month of me not going to school to find my sperm donor's body in the river, because of the stab wounds they just assumed that his drunk ass had gotten into a fight with someone, escaped and then fallen into the river and drowned having no energy or actual survival rate after the fight.

It was easy to get away with but not to deal with, not because of the guilt or anything, It was the push it was coming back and it was strong.