Chapter 21

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"For me a corpse has a beauty and dignity which a living body could never hold . . . there is a peace about death that soothes me." 

-John Reginald Halliday Christie (8 April 1899 – 15 July 1953), was an English serial killer during the 1940s and early 1950s. He murdered at least eight women – including his wife, Ethel – by strangling them in his flat in London. The bodies of three of his victims were discovered hidden in an alcove in the kitchen. His wife's body was found beneath the floorboards of the front room. Christie was arrested and convicted of his wife's murder, for which he was hanged.

Chapter 21

I slid the key into the front door with a satisfying clunk and unlocked the doorknob. Kicking the bottom of the door at the same time, the wooden entrance opened at my effort, sliding backwards so I could fit my thin frame through the gap.

The sound of high-pitched laughter filled my ears, my eyebrows raised in silent surprise. I recognized the voice as my mothers, giggling in the kitchen.

Approaching the kitchen quietly, I threw my belongings into my room from the doorway and proceeded forwards. I hadn't heard my mother laugh in a long time, so long—in fact—that I had almost forgotten what it sounded like.

When I reached the kitchen, the most pleasant and horrifying sight greeted me. My mother and father were hand in bandaged hand, swaying back and forth, dancing in the space between the two benches. Pleasant was the way my mother was laughing, was the way my father was smiling and was the way most of the bruising was gone from his body. The fact that he was out of hospital was the biggest and most pleasant surprise of them all. Horrifying was the way his skin was still so pale, the way he was effortlessly swaying in my mother's arms and the way my mother didn't seem to care that he should be resting in bed. He shouldn't even be leaving his room, let alone dancing around the kitchen where sharp and deadly objects waited to slip off the benches and strike into a persons flesh.

Over my mothers shoulder, his head finally turned to my general direction and his eyes widened at the sight of me.

"Dad." I breathed, a huge weight lifting off of my chest.

My mother dropped her arms to her sides, allowing him to open his arms to me. Unable to contain the mixture of emotions that built inside of my stomach, I approached him cautiously and gently wrapped my arms around his large stomach. He enveloped me into his warm embrace with the tightening of his arms around my thin frame.

"I missed you so much." I mumbled into his chest.

His only response was to tighten his arms around me one more time before letting me go, returning to his usual, unreadable self. It was the first time I was able to completely focus on his face, and I realized how much the accident had aged him. His hair, usually only streaked with grey, was completely discolored above his ears, and his bold patch had grown to the size of a large pancake. His eyes were sunken inwards. The dark circles under his eyes were grey.

My mother decided it was a good time to loudly clear her throat, driving my attention away from my father. Her hair was frail, but the glow in her cheeks made up for it. She was happy.

"Should I put dinner on?" My mother asked, not really giving us a chance to answer as she pulled out two large pans and turned on the heat.

She pulled chicken breast and green vegetables out of the fridge, preparing to make a basic stir-fry, which would taste dry and woody. I didn't mind. As long as it kept the hunger at bay, I wasn't picky about food.

I sighed and drifted over to the couch, leaving enough room beside me for my father. He sat down a moment later with a grunt of pain, the soft material sinking under his weight. I began to stretch my hand towards his, but stopped myself when I noticed the hardness in his expression.

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