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November 8, 2011
I hated my father.
Maybe my hate of my father was inherited. I knew my mother hated him as well. He just walked away from us, leaving my mother when she was pregnant with me. He seemed like such a despicable man, but mom would never give me his name.
Year after year, I would always ask her, “What’s his name?”
She would always reply, “That doesn’t matter, baby girl. All that matters is that he gave me you.” Then she’d plant a kiss on my head and walk away like I hadn’t said a word. I hated it when she did that.
This year, though, I needed it to be different, no matter what lies I would have to formulate to get it out of her. I just wanted to know who my father was. He was my next target.
“Momma,” I said sweetly. “What is my daddy’s name?” She opened her mouth to spout the same bullshit she did every time. “Please Momma, I want to find him. I want to know why he left.”
She sighed and stopped chopping vegetables, taking the knife and jabbing it into the cutting board. “Baby girl, there isn’t any point in finding him. He’s going to deny it all.”
“Please Momma! I just need to know! I need to know why he didn’t want me!” I managed to muster a few fake tears. She would take the bait easily, I knew it.
Her expression softened. She wiped her hands on her apron and came over to me. Pulling me into a loving hug she whispered, “I don’t know what good it’ll do you, but his name was Ephraim. Ephraim Black. If you’re really going to find him, use the picture in the den to help you!”
“What picture?”
“The one I always said was a picture of your uncle.”
“Oh,” I said. She had a picture of him this whole time? She never told me? How could she? I had trusted her! I masked my anger and walked away from her. How could she have not told me?
I found the picture hanging on the wall in the den. It was a picture of mother and a man that she had told me was my uncle. She had said he died in a car accident. Now I knew he probably never existed. The man was my father. I wrapped my fingers around the wooden frame and pulled it off the wall.
Why did it seem so wrong to finally know who he was? I had a right. Maybe it was because I intended to kill him. I wanted him dead in the worst way, and I wouldn’t let anything stop me.
I took it up stairs with me. The picture and the name Ephraim Black would certainly be fundamental in locating him. The picture would help me identify him, the name would make him easier to find.
I switched on my computer and waited for it to start. I sat the picture on top of the modem. “Now Daddy Dearest, come out, come out, where ever you are.”
I clicked on the Internet Explore icon and waited a few seconds for it to open. I pulled up Facebook and typed his name into the search bar after logging in.
Social networking sites—the perfect weapon.
YOU ARE READING
The Massacre
Short StoryHatred can drive anyone to do anything. But with Piper Kelly it is different. Her hatred is based on her father, her tormenters, and the people who accused her ancestor of being a murderer. She feels that if they are going to accuse someone of murde...
