Bad Blood

You're A Dead Man

I can't say I'm angry with what my parents did in the slightest. I've thought just as much about what might actually kill me, and it scares me when I can't think of anything.

The years only brought out the disgusting monster within me. My eyes only got darker, and my hands and teeth sharper. My mother calling me a little freak wasn't entirely lost over time.

I lived in the room in the basement for years. My father had told all of our relatives I was dead, and nobody questioned him. The housekeepers were told to stay away from the basement, and after a few months, I was almost certain nobody remembered I existed. My father would visit once a year, on my birthday, to remind me that I was a monster, and that I was lucky that he kept me alive. I never bothered to remind him that even if he wanted to, he didn't have much of a choice.

December passed by all too quickly, and eventually my worst fear came into fruition- maybe he wouldn't visit this year. Maybe he thought I was too old for it, or that I'd frozen to death, or he'd keeled over of a heart attack. That would ruin everything I'd worked towards. I'd played the good, obedient son for god knows how long; I let him insult me, and threaten me, and convince himself he was justified in damning me into a life of isolation. I stayed quiet when he went on about how it was all my fault my mother was dead, and that he wished it was me instead. When he asked why I couldn't just up and die already so he could stop worrying about it. I put up with his drunken, indifferent abuse my whole life, and he could just as easily ruin my future by not showing up.

"My little monster, how long has it been? How long since you killed my wife and ruined everything?" He's sitting too close, the stench of alcohol still potent on his breath. This isn't unusual, for him, but it only gets worse as time goes on. The more I understood the intent behind his hushed tone and 'kind' touches, the more sure I was that I hated him. The more sure I was positive he was only visiting to tell me how much he loathed my existence, and yet by the next morning I was nearly positive he loved me. It was a vicious cycle that I couldn't wait to put an end to.