Short Stories

1. Papa

I was tired and hungry and all I wanted was to go home. Oh, wait. This is my home now, isn't it?

It is always cold and dark; it smells of moss and dried blood. The dust settles in against my bare skin. A coppery tang of metal hangs in the air and I feel like I might vomit again. My arms are numb and so are my knees, I think I scraped my knees on the stone floor when I tried to move before. The blood trickling down my arms is still fresh, the handcuffs digging into my wrist are old and rusted

My head is burning, a thousand needles pressing into my scalp. The needles aren't actually there but they might as well be. It would be best that way. Maybe I can finally die instead of being locked up here. In my own home. Can I still call it my home? I want to call it that. I want to die but I am afraid to. Maybe it will get better? I have a friend. She tells me it won't. She...I don't know who She is or if She actually exists.

There are things I don't remember. Every time I try to recall all I see are vague, blurry fragments, and sometimes all I accomplish is getting myself another pounding headache. I think I am doing something in those memories but I am not sure. It's like I am not me anymore.

Why am I here again? Again. I am sure I did something, something bad that I can't remember. And he is punishing me again. It's all my fault. Papa says it's all my fault. 

The basement door creaks open and a shaft of light creeps in. I can see his silhouette stepping inside. The air feels heavy and I can't breathe. The cold walls feel foreign, I can't feel the restraints digging into my wrists. He smells of booze. He can smell my fear. Papa steps closer and my head bursts.

Don't touch me. It hurts. It hurts every time. I hate it. The splitting pain. The way he touches me. It's disgusting. Disgusting and painful. A thousand needles press into my body and I want to die.

I close my eyes and brace for the hit to register. For the shouting.For the grabbing and pulling. For the–

Papa opens the handcuffs and my hands fall to my side. I don't look at him. Then I feel his fingers weaving through my hair, his hand patting my head. And I think, for just a second, maybe he does love me. I am his flesh and blood. Maybe he realized his mistake and he will now forgive me and we can be a normal happy family again. The fingers that so gently caressed my head just moments ago now started pulling them. I scream and he pulls me harder, his other hand grips my waist. It goes numb all of a sudden and my vision turns black

                                   

I am lying on the floor. It is cold. Cold and hard. The handcuffs aren't digging into my wrists anymore. Papa isn't shouting anymore. His body lays on the floor. It is still warm. The red blood oozes out of his wound and he doesn't move. He won't move. Not anymore. The broken bottle of booze that was lying on the floor before is now stained in blood, some of its shards are stuck in Papa's neck.

I didn't do this. It wasn't me. (Maybe it was me.) I didn't do this. It was Her. She did it.

His fingers gently move through my hair, and then they pulled. That is all I remember, the rest is dark. A void that shouldn't be filled. A void I am scared to fill, memories I am too weak to acknowledge. But I know that She did it. Every time I blackout, every time something happens that I can't recall doing, it always turns out to be her. I know it.

She is stronger than me. She isn't scared. She hates him. She hates Papa. Papa is dead. Forever. He won't love me anymore. He can't hurt me anymore.

I feel happy, a little scared, but happy nonetheless. I cry, and this time it's not because of the pain.