Her Story

3~ Dog Days

Summer seemed to drag on. After the funeral, I spent most of my hours inside. Since I only had Emma as a friend, it got pretty lonely.

My father was off at work most days in the week, but he would come home on the weekends.

I went on my laptop for pretty much the whole day, on tumblr, looking at photos of celebrities, wishing my life could be as glamorous as theirs. Why couldn't I be famous? I would give anything to be like them.

By July, I decided to try working on the "Red Hand" case. I looked for clues around Emma's house, and my own, to see if he left anything behind. It seemed pretty unlikely, but I had to give a chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How was your day?" My father asked.

I kept my head down, and chewed my food slowly.

"I said, HOW WAS YOUR DAY?!?" He screamed at me and pounded his fist on the table.

He hasn't raised his voice like that since my mother died. I swallow my food. "It's not like you would care, you come home drunk every day and go right sleep, without saying 'hey' or 'how's your day going Amy?' You don't even bother to make sure I'm safe. Ever since Mom died, you haven't give a crap about whether I'm dead or alive. I ignore the fact you don't love me anymore, you don't care. I try to stay strong for this family. It's not really a family is it? Would the father, the caretaker, ignore his daughter's needs, like-"

"That's enough of your lip Lucy!" He growls.

"I'm Amy."

"What?"

"I'm Amy, Lucy is my mother's name." I stare at my food.

"Learn how to respect your elders, you spoiled brat!"

I stand up, "Would a spoiled brat have to beg for the littlest amount of affection? You never listen to me anymore, you never care! You are a self-centered, two faced bastard!"

And that's when my father smacks me in the face. I place a hand on my cheek, I feel the swollen spot, and pull my hand away, too see a drop of blood on my fore finger. I spin around and run to my room.

Of all the times my father and I have a fight, he has never later hands on me. I felt defeated and crashed on my pillow. I needed the rest. Every night I sleep only about two to three hours. Mostly because I was too awake and fearful to sleep. I decided today was the day I would have a good night sleep... I'll have to. But first, look for some clues.

My father was being quite the suspicious character. Surely he wouldn't do it... would he?

Amy, don't think like that, I told myself.

After a long time of consideration, I decided to go into his room, which was off limits.

•~~~~~~~~~~~~~•

I peered through the door and started humming the Mission Impossible theme to myself, and I make a gun with my hands.

I know it's wrong to snoop, and is even worse to think my father could possibly be a serial killer, but things looked bad. He never tells me about work. He stays late, he never lets me in his room, doesn't that seem just a tad suspicious?

I stepped inside the room, and looked around.

Books and clothes were covered in dust, the bed looked like it had never been touched... that seems quite curious. Since he had left for his "job" right after out argument, I thought it would be the best time to hunt.

But it was really strange. I looked at the books, but I couldn't make anything out because of the grime all over them. I had to think like a detective. How do you make it look like nothing was touched? I have to simply replace the dust... But how?

That thought soon slipped my mind when I saw the names of the books, after I brushed off the dust. All of them seemed to have a red liquid splattered all over it. Could it be... blood? No, it couldn't. That seemed impossible. But something smelled really bad, like a rotten fish that has been sitting out for weeks. Anyway, all the books had a common thread running through them.

They were all horror stories. Whether it was Edgar Allan Poe, or Stephen King, they all had that same thing in common. He could have his hobbies, but my dad was usually the romance novel kind of guy. Or atleast he was until my mother died. That death had changed him. It always seemed to go back to that one moment in his- our life.

I looked through the stacks, to see if there was anything suspicious wandering about.

I went to the bathroom, and as I did the stench grew stronger. I looked over to see the shower curtain closed, so I drew my hand on it and opened it.

I screamed to see the rotting flesh in the bathtub.

My father was the Red Hand Killer.

~~~~~~~~~~

A/N

Oh snap, shit's going down.

I bet you all saw it coming though. XD What shall Amy do???? Is she gonna tell someone? Oh snapple!

Everyone take a moment to look at @-Quill- profile, and her story. Also @KastasiaDawson as well. They both are incredible writers and deserve praise for their writing.

Remember to follow, comment and vote.

~Toria