Page 50 of Rot

I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that at all.

I was eight. One could argue that I didn’t understand the complexities of life and death, or one could simply agree that the rot had already taken root in me. Either way, it didn’t matter. The end result was the same.

And what was the end result?

Without a second thought I lifted my arms and pushed her back, and then I stood there, poolside, watching as her body fell backward, into the water, into the deep end of the pool. I watched as Stacey struggled to surface, as she freaked out and kicked her arms and threw her legs all around her in the water, but she never came up.

The girl couldn’t swim. She shouldn’t have been talking to me like that if she couldn’t swim. Was it my fault, or did she just get what she deserved? And did that matter?

I watched a classmate drown because I’d pushed her into the water, knowing she couldn’t swim. I watched and I waited, making sure her limp body remained motionless under the surface.

No one was around. No one saw me do it. No parents, no grandparents, no other kids. There would be no one to tell the truth about what happened, and even though I was only eight years old, I was smart enough to know telling the truth about what happened would only get me in trouble.

I didn’t want to be in trouble. I wanted what I could never have, but it was something I couldn’t put words to at the time.

When my grandmother called an ambulance after, when she’d sat me down and told me about the rot and how it had taken hold of me just like it had wormed itself into my father’s heart, I knew I wasn’t like anyone else. The only other person who could possibly understand was my father, and he was locked up, waiting for his death.

No one, I knew, could ever understand me. I was destined to be alone.

Well, me and the rot.

The rot kept me company throughout my life, getting me into trouble whenever it could. Fights with classmates who couldn’t keep their mouths shut about my bloodline. Sabotaging teachers’ computers and other classmates’ papers when I could. Each and every time I found myself in trouble, my grandmother was there to save the day, to remind the school and everyone in it that their money and donations would stop flowing if they so much as lifted a finger to discipline me.

My grandmother always hated me. She made that very clear. She hated me and the rot inside of me, just like she hated my father.

When they put my father to death, I wasn’t allowed to go. I wasn’t allowed to see him take his final breath or hear him speak his final words. I was never allowed to meet the man who’d given me life, the one who’d slaughtered his way through my mother’s friends and their families and helped bring me into this world through violence and hatred.

No, I wasn’t allowed to go, but my grandmother did. My grandfather stayed home with me that day, and she went out to watch him die. When she came home, she was in a good mood, for once. She practically bounced through the house, all giddy and happy as she recited the whole thing to my grandfather.

“His last words,” I overheard her tell him, “were ridiculous and vile, but they fit him well.Fuck you, fuck all of you.” She giggled. “I think he was staring at me when he said it, the disgusting creature.”

They were in their bedroom, his, more specifically, since they’d been sleeping apart for years. I clung to the wall in the hall, my eyes widening when she said something else.

“I must say, I’m glad that man is finally dead. We can put him and his reign of terror to rest once and for all. No more Charles Bovine.”

The words cut through me like a knife, searing hot and painful—something I wasn’t used to. Pain had never really been on my radar, but right then, I felt it deep within my soul. Maybe the rot in me twisted and curdled after hearing about my father’s death. Maybe the rot was connected, somehow.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was how angry I was right then. I wanted to do something I hadn’t done in a long, long time, since that pool party with Stacey.

I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted to hurt my grandmother, make her regret saying those words. All my life she’d made it known that I was nothing more than an obligation. No love, just duty. I was just a reminder of what they’d lost: their only daughter, who’d lost her mind so badly that she had to be locked away, visited only on special occasions like her birthday or holidays.

My mother was weak, but I wasn’t. I wanted my grandmother to know I was more like my father than anyone else.

Fuck being a Karnagy. I was a Bovine.

And so, that night, when both my grandparents were fast asleep in their beds, I crept out of mine and treaded lightly down the hall. My back was straight, my face expressionless. I knew what I had to do.

I tiptoed into my grandfather’s room, closing the door behind me without making a sound. I was a predator in the night, snaking my way to his bedside. He was fast asleep, snoring loudly, hence why my grandmother had a different room.

He lay in the middle of a king-sized bed, underneath the white sheets. There were more pillows on the bed than he could use, so it’d make it easy. Plus, the man slept like a rock.

I crawled onto the bed, grabbed a pillow from the edge, and went to straddle him. I was fourteen years old. Still a child, but strong enough to take an old man as he slept. I stared at my grandfather’s face for only a moment before lowering the pillow.

It wasn’t easy to smother someone, go figure. When he began to have trouble breathing, he woke up and struggled, so I had to put damn near all of my weight on the pillow against his face. No matter how he pried at the pillow or at me, he couldn’t get me off.

The whole thing felt like it took forever, but the reality was much shorter than that. When he stopped struggling, I didn’t let up right away. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t playing at being dead just so I’d get off him. I waited a good minute or two before crawling off him and returning the pillow to its rightful place—after smacking it a few times with a fist to get any imprint of my grandfather’s face out of it.

Once I was back on my feet beside the bed, I stared at my grandfather’s lifeless form. Curtains were drawn on the windows, blocking out most of the moon’s light, but I could see enough. His chest didn’t rise and fall with slow breaths any more, and no more snoring filled the air.

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