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I quickly printed a picture of him, staring at the scar on his lower lip. The desire to sink my teeth into it was so strong it almost made me gasp.
“You’ve always looked so prim and proper before. In your ties and suits and that smile… But now…” Shaking my head with a smile, I blew him a kiss. “Wait for me, Mr. Sinclair. I’ll be that thing you never knew you needed.”
Stretching, I stood up and walked to my bedroom, still clinging to Ryden’s picture. I loved looking at him. He had the kind of face that made you want to commit sins even if you were religious and moral.
You are neither.
You’re getting snarky, Kat, for a dead best friend, I said with a sigh.
I walked to the black four-poster bed that occupied half of my room. Sliding under the thick quilt, I closed my eyes. I could never sleep without the quilt, even when it was sweltering. The fear that someone might walk in and see me at my most vulnerable never left me, even after I killed my father.
The fear… the fear I felt that time, it was like another skin, buried under the one I was wearing now.
Always there.
Always ready to come apart with just a scratch.
So, I never scratched. I never touched the scars.
The very first time I killed, it wasn’t something born out of desire. It was born out of a stark necessity. Surviving. I was only surviving.
It was the night of my thirteenth birthday party. I knew his intentions the moment he walked into my room, drunk. He grabbed me by my hair, and I felt the sting of his nails on my skin. I had to stop him, or I would never escape him.
My anger came in flashes. Pulsing red and orange and a writhing black. It came like a storm, and I pushed him away from me with all my strength. He staggered back, shouting as he did.
I pulled the knife out of the folds of my dress. I had no idea what pushed me to grab it and bring it to my room, but I knew it’d save me.
The pink and blue frosting on the shining knife felt like an irony. It was the knife I used to cut the cake—he liked to pretend he was not an evil man during the daylight, that we were normal.
WHY? I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. All my words died at the tip of my tongue, bleeding back into my soul, corrupting, staining. Until my bones and skin were aching.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered.
He drunkenly slurred, “Come to your father.”
“You’re not my father.”
My ears rang. A crimson haze clouded my vision. It was as if the world itself had turned a shade of furious red. It was too much and too little all at once.
The words I was forced to keep inside, came out in a startling scream. The sound was both liberating and terrifying. I screamed. Louder. Louder.
The festering, boiling feelings finally found a way out. It was cathartic.
My father, startled by the force of my scream, took a quick step back from me and stumbled against my dollhouse. He fell, and the dollhouse crumpled underneath his weight. The beautiful, tiny, detailed furniture broke.
As the echoes of my scream mixed with air, I stood there, gasping for breath, surrounded by the broken parts of my life—a life that would never be the same again. I didn’t want it to be the same. I looked down at him, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. I had never felt powerful in my life. It was intoxicating to stand over a massive man, to know that he was afraid.
For as long as I could remember, I had been the invisible ghost, drifting through people made of colors. I was black and white. No one saw me. No one heard me. He finally saw me, and he was afraid of what he saw. Something trembled awake inside me.
“What are you doing, Yara? Put the fucking knife down, you insane girl. You’re just like your mother, you little bitch.”
Before he could act, I thrust the knife into his side.
“You made my mother mad. You—you destroyed her. Now you want to destroy me? I won’t let you. I WON’T LET YOU.”
He tried to get up, but I didn’t give him the chance. I plunged the knife into his chest. Once. Twice. Thrice. Blood gurgled out in a steady stream. I couldn’t stop.
A part of me had been ripped off, and the other part of my soul was now filled with darkness. The door was opened, and the demons had come in, ready to feast, thirsty for blood, hungry for pain.
