Involved with the Mafia

2.

  I backed up against the wall of the stairs and tumbled my way up, slipping on numerous steps. Once I reached the top, out of instinct, I turn and look behind me.

  The man stands at the bottom, downcasting his black hat, preventing me from seeing his face. I could see just below the shadow, and I see him holding a smirk. His white bottom up shirt is streaked with fresh blood, his black tie ruffled. I don't have the strength to run. I don't have the strength to turn my head when I see him escalating the steps in a slow fashion.

  He climbs the steps like a predator, slow and menacing, for he knows that I can't move the slightest inch. His hand tucks into his jacket and my eyes widen as he reaches the final step. His head still low, he walks until we're a couple inches apart. This is when I notice how short he is. His form not at all threatening, but he's capable of murder. You can never trust anyone, or give the slightest assumption.

  He hands me a note. I reach for it with my shaking and pale hands. He doesn't let go of it just yet, but instead lifts his hat off his head. He lets down his flowy black hair.

Which only covered half his head.

  The other half was completely shaven, showing the tissue of a dark pink scar. It starts from the bottom of his lip and crosses his cheeks and scalp. He opens his mouth.

  "Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides," were the only words spoken.

  With that, he descends the stairs and gives me one last glance before I hear him slide open the backyard door and close it. One long, shaky breath escapes my mouth.

  I don't know what to do.

  I take a couple steps down and peer at my father sitting on the chair. I can hear drops of blood spilling, I can see the trail of blood circling around his brown leather shoes. My tears absentmindedly fall as I scrunch the paper in my hand. I could see the long rope tied at his neck and trailing to the ceiling.

I start shaking violently, my eyes zooming into the white tag on my dad's sweater. My feet automatically walk down the steps and my hands clutch at my cold, goosebumped skin. I turn and look at my father. Walking to him, I see the tag stained red. I grab it and look at the words.

Number 13,

Call the police and I will blow the house room by room.

-steve

I look up and notice blinking lights at every corner of each room. Red, green, blue, green, white. The white shows longer than the others, maybe 30 seconds.

I contemplate whether I should call the police. Whether I should involve them in this. Would it be a bad idea?

I look back at the blinking lights.

Definitely.

Rapid breaths escape my mouth as I swipe the floor clean. My eyes constantly meet my father's, though they don't tend to look at mine. Grabbing a scissor, I snap the rope from the ceiling and tug it from my dad's neck.

His head falls on his shoulders and I start to sniffle. The only time I've seen my dad like this was when he came home drunk, wearing this same hat. He never told me where he works, all I know is that every Friday, he comes home to drink. And now, well, he's dead. We never really had a fantastic daughter, father relationship. Just sort of a cliché, expected relationship.

  But he was there for me every time I fell. When my mom decided to leave without much of a peep. He's the only family I have.

  My hands move to take off his hat. I place it on my side. His black ruffled hair falls to ears, and to be specific, the one strand of dark hair the swifts just above his eye.

  This isn't the first time I've seen someone die. I've gone through this for the third time now.

  Normally, people would've ran away and yell from the top of their lungs with fear, but not I. I still get the ache in my chest, the guilt clawing at me. The funny thing is, it's never my fault. I just feel guilty of watching them die. Every single one.

  But, this one is different. This is my father. My hand glides to his neck and recovers the bruises.

"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."

He is what he hides.

  My mind flashes back to all of the days I hear him twist the key and open the door. The different suit cases on his callus hands.

  My father was never a business man.