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I'm bleeding.
Father pauses and frowns the moment his eyes land on me; his appetite quite gone, but he finishes the Y-shaped incision from both shoulders, joining over the sternum and continuing down to the pubic bone on the dead woman. She's been decomposing for two days, which means her body is cold and stiff.
I've been told someone crushed her skull with a rock.
"Do tell your sister to clean that wound, child."
I close my eyes and feel his weakness. His hunger is there; it's much stronger now, mostly because the woman's major organs are in good condition, despite the life she lived. Prostitutes never last long.
"Don't bleed on my floor, child." His words sting.
I breathe in and out. In. Out. His body heat is decreasing. It's been forty-five days since he ate a proper meal, but where should he find fresh lungs?
Father stands up, surprisingly graceful for a man of his size, and pulls a tissue out his pocket to wipe the blood from his hands. He insists on not wearing gloves while doing any sort of surgical procedure.
"Give me the blade, child."
I slap him. I am tired of being used. Sadly, his shock is short-lived.
Father checks his clock and taps his right foot. Always impatient. Never truly calm.
"Don't go there. Don't think it."He rubs the nape of his neck.
"Besides, a friend of mine would very much like to meet you tomorrow. You must look presentable. Your mother will bathe and dress you."
I skitter the cold metal across my pulse and blood spurts. It's wet and cold, but only a few droplets are lost. Father opens his mouth to say something crude, like he usually does, but nothing comes out this time. He takes a step back as he gets an eyeful of my wrist. The wound heals in mere seconds. No scar is left behind.
It's my turn to use, to hurt him.
"You wanted a monster and I've decided to give you one." I add to our conversation.
Father smells like tobacco, Lucky Strike Cigarettes to be precise, five cents Ivory soap and Boraxo.
"The inside of your mind must be a terrible place, child."
I make another incision in the new tissue and the skin proceeds to heal itself. Father clenches his hands above his head and hums a strange tune.
"What a pretty girl you've become."
Father leans forward and places his hands on my shoulders. His clothes are stained with the woman's blood. Hair falls over his forehead, nearly hiding his mismatched eyes. One sable, the other nomad.
"I knew what you were from the beginning."
He runs a knuckle down my cheek. There's a hint of instant coffee in his breath.
"I'm flesh and blood, but not human."
It's no secret. I am an attractive, dark-haired girl with pale skin, who certainly doesn't look like a monster that enjoys hunting humans.
"You were born to spill blood, child."
A big smile spreads across his face, but he takes a step back, and another. That's hesitation.
"Who am I to stand in the way of my fate?"
I bang his head against the brick wall until my hands are sopping wet with a soggy mass that was once his brain. Blood drips in tiny drops from my face and fingers. It's forming a puddle around me.
Drip, drip, drip.
The blood between my toes is warm.
"You told them about me. You didn't protect me. They're after me now and it's your fault."
Then, he starts to bleed like a broken faucet.
To my surprise, all I feel is relief. It's not an uncomfortable feeling; something I can only describe as an electric current passing through my body. It makes my heart beat faster. Glucose is released into my bloodstream.
Flies begin to move through the air around him. I close my eyes and let him hit the old parquet.
I am so grateful to the people listed below because they took time from other things to help with my project. It was so nice of you to help me out the other day. I will always remember how you helped me.
