Page 67 of Vicious Sentiments

I glance at my dad, the bloody pulp on the floor, and freeze. Is he not breathing? I try to stop shaking to be able to tell but I can’t tell if there’s movement.

Oh, god.

I look back to Cape but he’s in a catatonic state, a terminator malfunctioned.

“Cape?” I whisper, needing him to snap out of it but afraid of what will happen when he does. “Is my dad dead?”

Chapter Thirty-Five

I’m wrapped up on the couch with an ice pack on my cheek as I listen to the bickering coming from the kitchen.

“How did he even get in the house?” Julian’s voice is barely a comfort.

“In my house, Caperson? Myhouse?” Margo is snapping.

“Good riddance,” Julian mumbles and I hear what sounds like a pat on the back.

“You two get this cleaned up before Marney comes home. And use the enzyme cleaner after the bleach. I don’t want a speck of blood overlooked.”

“What about Dillon?” Julian asks.

“I’ll handle Dillon,” she says.

“We can’t trust him,” Cape speaks for the first time since they walked in and ushered me into the living.

“What do you mean?” Julian asks but no response comes.

“I’ll handle it,” Margo repeats. “He doesn’t need to know about…. this.”

This being the dead body that is my dad. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. Relieved? Sad? Horrified? Cape literally beat him to death in front of my eyes. I just feel sick from the sight and I can’t get my hands to stop trembling.

I drop the ice pack and tuck my hands between my thighs.

I always pictured killing my dad. If I somehow got a hold of a gun, and what it would look like if I shot him in the head. If I put rat poison in his whiskey, and watched him foam from the mouth. If I smothered him in his sleep, struggling to hold him down as the life faded from his eyes and he looked into mine, knowing how much I hated him.

But none of those are as graphic as how it actually played out. And it wasn’t even my hands. I also don’t think I ever believed it would happen.

Why would he even come here? He never gave a fuck about me. He was always screaming about how much of a burden I was and,why didn’t I just get lost? There would be many times when I was battered and broken that I slept in the back corner of the park while I licked my wounds. He never looked for me then and he never said anything when I showed up back home, desperate for a soft surface and meager shelter over my head.

I guess it makes sense though. His rage could only build up for so long until he needed someone to take it out on. I was that person. Whether it be holding my head under dirty dishwater, or weekends of being tied to the radiator while he watched me wither.

He was an awful man, the bottom of the barrel, and yet I always returned like a loyal dog, starving and afraid, but loyal all the same.

I’m glad he’s dead.

But I’m not okay. I don’t feel the throw that was wrapped around me and my eyes are unfocused, gazing blankly. I don’t even feel the pain in my rib and I can’t tell if I’m cold or the shaking is something else.

After a few more minutes of bickering, Julian appears. He kneels at my feet and stuffs his hands under the blanket.

“Sweetheart?”

I blink against my scratchy eyelids, my cheeks tight with dried tears.

“I’m going to carry you upstairs. Is that okay?” he asks.

Julian is always considerate but he must see something on my face that makes him double check.

I want to say yes or nod, but I can’t bring myself to.

---