Wasted Life (A Collection Of Stories)

A Pretty Picture For Daddy

She paints a pretty picture but this story has a twist. Her paintbrush is a razor and her canvas is her wrist.

I’m sorry that this sheet has blood on it, I needed to lash out and it sort of dripped down. You see, I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t do what I did. Nothing would have happened if I didn’t go out. Or… Would I’ve not done that if I never began looking? You know, it’s funny, how in a space of a week I found and lost my father.

I’ve been looking for my father for about a month now, all I managed to find out about him was his name – Marcus Todosei, my surname could have been Todosei if I ever had the chance to know my parents. Maybe if everything would have been different if I never tried looking. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have felt as guilty and maybe my wrists, my hips and my thighs wouldn’t have the scars that they have gained during the course of the past week.

My friend, her name doesn’t matter anymore, said that I was becoming obsessed with finding him. But, can you really blame me? I never had any kind of family. I’m alone. All I ever wanted was to hug someone that truly cared about me.

Somehow, she convinced me to go clubbing with her. Perhaps it’s the slutty clothes that we wore or maybe it’s that the bouncers don’t really look at our fake IDs but we managed to get in. It was fun for the first ten minutes, but even though some guys, that were probably twice our age, kept buying us shots nothing seemed to manage to take my mind off my father, and the deafening house music gave me a headache. I left as the headache got worse. Maybe I was getting obsessed? Normally, we would have stayed till they stopped the music or, at least, till we were a Flaming Mouthwash away from giggling with a thirty-five year-old biker.

It was around two, when I noticed that I was being followed. It was a man. Suddenly, he grabbed me with such force I thought my arm would snap. As he forced me into a nearby alley, I opened my mouth to scream, but his hand clamped my mouth shut. When he slapped me he did it with such force that my head hit the brick wall before the rest of my body followed. I’m sure that if the man wasn’t holding me I would have fallen on the shattered glass that was covering the ground.

Keeping one hand on my mouth, he began to unbuckle his belt, and then, his trousers. I was petrified, I knew what was going to happen and I didn’t know if I could live with that.

I don’t even know what happened next… It was all so fast. My leg jerked up and the man was sprawled on the ground holding his groin, his face reflected the pain he must have felt. I stood there, shocked, for a few seconds, as soon as I recovered I realised what I had to do. I picked up a brick, I didn’t even look where I threw it. But I hear it make a sound, it was a soft thump.  I ran as fast as I could home, well not really home, the place I lived more like.

My heart was racing faster than my feet in my 6 inch heels. I ran into the house and straight to my room. I felt sick, not just sick. I felt traumatised, I… I… I was so alone it’s not like anyone would have cared if I got raped. No one would care if I got pregnant or if he had killed me after he was finished.

I thought that I was so lucky to have gotten away. Too bad that’s not the way it turned out.

I cried till daylight flooded into my room, it helped me to notice a shiny object that led to my addiction. It was my carving knife. I used it to carve my favourite quote from The Joker into my desk.

You can't rely on anybody these days, you gotta do everything yourself, don't we? But that's okay, I came prepared. It's a funny world we live in; speaking of which, you know how I got these scars?

I picked up the knife and watched as the tiny beams of light bounced off it. It’s funny how some of the most dangerous things can be beautiful. As if on autopilot, I brought the knife to my wrist, the cut wasn’t that deep but the tiny drops of blood that came from it were so rich in colour I couldn’t help but be mesmerised. I didn’t even notice as I did it again and again, I felt the pain but I couldn’t stop. I could smell the faint, metallic scent and it made me feel better. I felt like I had gotten all of my emotions out. I felt lifeless but good. The only time I’ve ever felt like that was when I was high, but this was far better than snorting.

It took a few days before I heard anything about the man in the alley, it happened when I sat down for breakfast with the other foster kids. I picked up one of the newspapers and nearly dropped it when I read the headline.

MAN, 46, MURDERED IN BACK ALLEY.

I read the article and was even more shocked.

Marcus Todosei, a 45 year-old man from Tameside West was murdered in one of Oldham’s Lord Street alleys. Police are looking into what could have led to the incident.

I didn’t think I killed him at first. It took a few moments for the words to sink in. I couldn’t have killed him – I told myself, but nothing helped. I ran to my room and did the only thing I could. I picked up the knife and began painting. I did it on my leg this time, there was much more space.

I didn’t go to school, how could I? I was a murderer! I killed my own father! What kind of daughter kills her father? Only a crazy one! I’m not crazy! I’m really not! I didn’t know that the man was going to be my father! I swear! I didn’t know!

My cuts were getting deeper and the pain was becoming harder to ignore. I heard police sirens. They were coming for me! I filled up the bath with water, I didn’t care if it was cold or not. I locked the bathroom door and undressed, my knife fell on the floor with a soft thud.

I sat down in the bath, the still raw cuts on my legs stung. I sucked a breath through gritted teeth. With my still dry hand I touched my face; I didn’t know that I was crying. I reached over and picked up the knife, there was only one useful place that I haven’t cut yet. My hips.

The first few cuts weren’t as deep as the ones on my legs but as the bath water slowly turned soft shades of pink and then red, my cuts became deeper and the stinging was almost too much to bear. A sob escaped my lips. I deserve it. I’m sure my father hurt much more when I killed him. It’s only right that I experience his pain.

I’m sorry that this note has blood and water and tears on it. I’ll be doing this for daddy. I’m going to let go.

She painted a pretty picture but this story has a twist, her mind was her razor…

… And her heart was her wrist.