Three moving boxes stacked onto each other, sat in a corner of the bland room. The box on top remained opened, but partly full, as if someone was still unpacking. Towards the side of the room, opposite the bed there was a small desk with a side lamp and a laptop. The full-sized bed wore blue and green polka dotted sheets along with a reversible blue and green comforter. This bed was the only object in the room that had any amount of color. Aside from being painted an eggshell color the walls laid bare. No posters, paintings, or pictures adorned these barriers. Next to the bed sat a small black ottoman that acted as a nightstand. There stood a pair of glasses, a hairclip, and a picture of a middle-aged man in a military uniform, atop this make shift nightstand.
That same middle aged man was left in a pile of blood on the floor. The blood splattered across the walls as well, adding color. The owner of the room stood tall, but shook with fear as she stared at the scene before her. Tears welled up and trickled down her bloodied face. That blood also caked her left hand. And in that left hand, she held makeup scissors that were coated in the same blood that decorated the wall and carpet underneath the middle aged man.
The scissors hit the ground as the left hand shook violently. The young teenage girl let out a frightful scream, breaking the silence that had temporarily set in. Dalia was having trouble coming to terms with what had just happened. Thoughts ran rampant through her head as she tried to frantically come to grips with what had just happened.
'You're having a nightmare, Dalia. C'mon now, wake yourself up. It's only a dream. You'll wake up soon to the smell of Dad making french toast and bacon. Everything is fine. JUST WAKE UP DAMMIT!' she thought trying to make sense of the grotesque scene before her. Sweat dripped down her forehead as anxiety made her mind it's temporary home. Fear and pain always being honorary guests. Dalia slumped to the floor, cradling her head in her hands.
"no, no no no no no no no..." she mumbled ever so lightly under her breath over and over again. Dalia pinched herself in hopes of waking up, like she had seen so many times in movies. Closing her eyes tight, and opening them again. Counting down from ten. Slapping and hitting herself. Nothing worked. Her father, The Hero, was still dead, bleeding out on the carpet. Those glassy dark eyes staring straight through her.
"What have you done?" a feminine voice asked from the doorway. Dalia looked up from her hands to the woman who brought her into this world. And then, something snapped. Dalia had a glint in her eye, and the tears stopped flowing. The corners of her mouth turned upwards, as a giggle escaped the girls lips. Oh but this giggle wasn't like any girlish, cute giggle. Soon that giggle turned into uncontrollable laughter. Dalia found the woman's question hilarious. Did her mother really think this was Dalia's doing? When Dalia finally spoke, her voice was strong and unwavering.
"What do you mean by that Mother? I've done nothing. This is your fault. You were always jealous of the way Dad treated me."
YOU ARE READING
The Hero
رعبDalia grew up in a military home, always moving around, always having to make new friends, and never having enough time with her father. Her father would often be deployed, so what little time he had with his family he spent with Dalia. This can of...
