Killing Cardinals

Chapter 5

"Two down. Five to go."

The room around me was thick with a humidity that I was not used to. Every table around me was clean. The chairs were hardly touched. Cutlery sat neatly on the table next to me. The familiar figure of my father stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen and sat at the table. He reached for his fork and knife, setting it onto the plate. He was eating nothing, but the sounds suggested his classic steak, potato and beans. I watched, almost mesmerized by the sight. He took a moment to swallow the air in his mouth before he glanced up at me.

"You shouldn't have hesitated." I crossed my arms, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. This felt like home. But it wasn't.

"It's human to hesitate when you don't understand the situation." I responded, not even bothering to touch the cutlery in front of me. He rolled his eyes and stuck his fork into the non-existent food on his plate.

"But you didn't exactly misunderstand, did you?" He seemed to glare me down, his sharp green eyes piercing through me.

"You can lie to yourself all you want, but not to me. I'm in your head." He continued eating while I only stared back in silence. I was trying to figure out my situation right now. This was my old house. I hardly remembered it, as we moved out of it when I was only three. I wasn't used to carpeted floors. And everything looked new. All of this furniture was old, and it sat in my mom's house.

"I was wondering about that," I started, looking down at my reflection in the plate. It seemed warped. It was not me, but it looked like how I saw myself inside.

"Why have you been showing up in my dreams?" I felt like the question was an obvious one with not-so-obvious answers. He reached for his empty glass. Even though non-existent, I could smell the alcohol reeking off of it.

"You need someone to motivate you to finish this," he said. He spoke so matter-of-fact, in a way that almost scared me. But why would it? I'd already killed four people in the last two months.

"Why?" I asked simply, not really expecting a reply. As expected, I didn't get one. My father just kept eating until he seemingly finished, wiping the invisible crumbs from his face. He reached for his glass.

"You know, for someone who seemingly understood justice, you certainly seem blood-hungry." I said, in a somewhat hoarse tone. He held the glass to his lips for a moment before letting out a quiet "hm" and taking a sip.

"Are you saying that to me or to yourself?" His question echoed in the room as he looked up at me, his face devoid of emotion. It scared me. It reminded me of him. It reminder me of his drunken mindlessness. I thought of his coffin. As my hands began to shake, I gripped the tablecloth tightly as I held in my tears.

"I... I don't know..." I closed my eyes tight, the white noise around me getting louder and louder before everything went silent. When I opened my eyes and looked up, I stared face to face with myself. My hair was hanging to the left of my shoulder as my hand held the gun to my forehead.

"Are you prepared to accept the consequences of what you've done?" I asked myself. I only stared back, my words caught in my throat, as I let out a soft reply.

"Yes."

***

"Nicole?" I opened my eyes carefully to the bright light of the hospital room. I glanced over at my friend, his eyes glued to me. I wasn't sure how long I'd been asleep, and I was almost nervous to ask. After a moment, I adjusted myself in the bed, sitting up a bit as I searched for a calendar.

"You don't have to keep staring at me, Tom. I'm not gonna fall out of the bed or anything." His eyebrows seemed to dart up. I knew I hardly called him Tom, but I was also hardly awake.