SO COLD (18+) currently editing

Chapter 33

SO COLD

Worn out face. Sunken in cheeks. Scraggly beard. He was dishevelled but appeared almost the same. He was dressed in a black coat and a scarf that looked more like a carpet. I almost expected something different. A drastic change. Something to signify his journey from hard-working father to cold-blooded murderer.

His eyes were slanted. A smile played on his lips as if he knew some twisted joke about me. There was nothing friendly about him. Just the bully I always knew. "Stop standing there like a gormless twit and come here and give your old man a hug."

"What are you doing here?" I didn't want to cower away. I squared my shoulders and closed my hands into fists. It was a transparent front. I wanted to be brave and stand up to him but I already felt my resolve crumbling like bread crumbs. A pathetic revert to who I was pre-the-murders.

"No welcome?" he looked at me up and down. Lingering. Then said. "I like what you've done to your hair. You look like a man. Is that what a lady should do?"

"What I do with my body is no concern of yours."

"It is if you look like a filthy transvestite."

"Aren't you late to a cult meeting, Dad?"

"Watch your tone."

"Why? Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I'm warning you, kid. Show some respect."

"'Course. Sorry Dad. What you've done is admirable. I want to grow up to be just like you. A pathetic loser."

His hand raised as if he was going to strike me. I didn't cower away and stared unflinchingly at him. I wasn't going to be the broken person he wanted me to be. I refused to be who he raised me to be. He gazed back and I couldn't tell what he was considering and then his arm fell, fingers curling up. "Where's my baby girl?" he wondered quietly, taunting. "The hopeless little piggy who wouldn't say no to a goose? Where's that gutless child who knows better than to raise her voice to me?"

The threat was clear.

My heart pounded loudly in my ribs. I felt unwell. A fast fever: face flushed red, forehead sweaty and hands clammy. It was hopeless: all of it. I was daft. Dysfunctional and clumsily put together was a home without my father and only now did I realise how utterly meaningless my efforts were. These past few months were pinched from fortune's hand. Nights of kissing Cole. Laughing with Irvin. Smoking pot with Daniel. It shouldn't have happened. Dad was always going to be here. A tumour in a body. A stain on a wall. A reminder: I can't escape the past.

"Cat got your tongue?" he ridiculed.

The smoke grew from a spark. Anger was a foul odour. It was a poisonous gas that defiled the organs and ruined a heart. Thousands of giant hornets fluttered in my head. Acid burning memories. Bullet ants nestled in earholes. Shrieking and stinging. Hairy tarantulas in the back of my throat. Tickling. Words itching to escape.

It was definite. A fact. I hated him.

There was no going back. No repairing our relationship. The few kind recollections of him evaporated in thin air.

"Why?" This was going to be the last thing I'll ever need from him. I demanded, "Why did you do it?"

"Invite me inside. You want answers, do you not?" he added when I tried to refuse. His gaze flitted to the front door and he frowned deeply. "A snake. An unusual decoration."

"I didn't put it there." I unlocked the front door. My behaviour hostile. The last thing I wanted was for him to walk through the life I've lived but I needed answers for a peace of mind and a good night's sleep.