Sharp Tools

Chapter 10: Aftermath

Clove's POV:

I wake up blinking, the sun peeking in through the curtains. For a second, it's like any other day, but as my eyelids flicker open and my nose becomes aware of the pungent scent around it, I get up startling awake. My misty eyes widen at the sight around me. Dishes and glass are shattered everywhere, furniture is destroyed, blood paints the tiling and parts of the wall, but most of all, my mom's body lays still in a red pool in the kitchen. 

Taking in the scene, I held back yet another sob. 

I see the trail of blood I left last night when I crawled to my father about to avenge Mom's death. Following the red markings, I notice that he's nowhere to be found. Typical. He must've left earlier.

Earlier... 

A thought crosses my mind, and suddenly I'm awake. What time is it? 7:30. Oh no. The twins. They can't see this. It would destroy them. They can't see their mom dead with a knife in her body, blood covering the house they grew up in. They can't know that the father they cherished, had killed her. I immediately take action. I rush to the hallway closet, grabbing the mop, a bucket, and some wipes to get to work. When I return, my determined attitude falters when I see her corpse.

Her blue eyes remain open and cold, showing no sign of life. Blood, probably a mix of hers and mine, stains her clothing and the surrounding floor. It lodges into each crevice and ruins the white-like aesthetic. Her dark hair is stickily held together in clumps of blood while her hands show no spot of clean skin. The pale, white complexion of her skin is completely overrun with red markings of dried blood.

"Mom," I weep, dropping the materials and rushing to her side.

"I can't leave you like this, Momma. Please come back. I need you. Please." Heavy tears roll down my face, and I probably look like an even greater mess, but who's gonna see me?  I stay in my position next to her body grasping her sticky red hands, letting my tears fall to the ground. I don't know how long I stay there, but my head jolts when I hear someone behind me.

"Amanda?" My father is still in the same clothes as before with a look of disbelief and regret.

I quickly stand up and chuck a knife at him, letting my anger and grief take over. "You killed her!"

He dodges and stumbles, trying to escape me. "Clove, I'm sorry."

I finally catch up to him, punching my fists into his chest. "YOU KILLED HER!"

He grabs my wrists, and by his demeanor, I can tell the alcohol in his system is gone. "Clove, stop."

I continue to cry and try to shove him. "YOU KILLED HER!"

His strength is unmatched for my eight-year-old body. He shoves me off and makes his way toward Mom.

"Amanda," he caresses her face. He bows his head and whispers something unintelligible as if she were listening.

I stand nearby with my hands clenched, watching him with Mom. Finally, he looks up with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I hate you."

He nods. Then, once again, leaves.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

He slightly turns to me. "I don't know. She's gone."

I scoff. "So what, now you're just gonna leave?!" Anger storms my head. "It's your fault!"

"I know." He glances back at Mom and just like that, he's gone. 

I collapse on the floor, overwhelmed by all the thoughts in my head. I can't move. I can barely breathe. 

"Help me. Please." I look up toward the sky. But no one comes. And in that moment, I know that I'm all alone.