Page 51 of Rot

He was dead.

I left him there, creeping back to my room with a smile on my face. Unlike most smiles I gave the world, this one was genuine. This one was heartfelt, one full of dark, twisted glee. The rot in me cheered for my actions, my only cheerleader in this life.

What a sad thing, for the devil in me to love me more than my family did.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night, and when sunlight streamed through my window, I got up. Got dressed, stretched, and readied myself for what would be a busy day. It was a Saturday, so no school, which meant I’d be around to see them cart his body away.

I practically skipped down the hall, to my grandfather’s room, and when I pushed open the door, I found him exactly where I’d left him. I had to hide my inner glee when I took on a startled tone and screamed for my grandmother, and when she came running and found me standing beside the bed, staring at a lifeless corpse, she knew.

Oh, she knew. She had to have known.

And yet, when they came to take his body away, she didn’t say a word—though she did toss me glares at every single opportunity. Something unspoken passed between us that day. Not acceptance. No, the woman would never accept me for who I was, where I’d come from, just like everybody else. It was something else.

Hmm. Maybe it was acceptance, just not of me. Perhaps my grandmother had finally accepted the fact that one day I’d kill her, too.

My mother got out of the institution when I was seventeen and a half. It had turned into a learning process, having her with us in the house. Each day that passed was like torture, full of small annoyances and pettiness, on both my part and my grandmother’s part. We’d become accustomed to the routine we’d developed, each of us ignoring the other whenever we could.

But now, with my mother around… things changed.

She was so freaking needy. So annoying about it, too. I couldn’t stand being in the same room as her. I hated her more than I hated my grandmother, I think, and I couldn’t help it. Maybe it was the rot in me, but I couldn’t stop viewing her as this weak, pathetic human being who, in reality, shouldn’t have been able to knock out my father and stop his darkness from spreading.

Maybe I hated her for taking him away from me.

Months passed. I turned eighteen. Life was miserable. I wanted a new life, a new start, but I wasn’t stupid. I had no skills that would be useful in the outside world. By all accounts, even though I’d been hated by my peers and their parents and everyone I’d ever met, including my own family, I was still a spoiled rich girl. I always got what I wanted, never had to work for it, and that wasn’t how the real world worked.

I needed money, but my grandmother wouldn’t give it to me. I didn’t have access to it. If something were to happen, however, my mother would. Everything would go to her… and then, really, all I’d have to do was take care of her and it would all be mine.

And then I could start new somewhere, make a new life for myself. Get a new name. Do whatever the fuck I wanted without caring about the consequences.

One night, after my mother had locked herself away in her room, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen. A big one. Nice and sharp, its stainless steel able to reflect my image perfectly. I took that knife upstairs to my grandmother’s room. She lay in bed, reading, but when I walked in, her eyes flicked up and she gently closed the book.

I walked to her bedside, standing less than two feet from her. She wore a white nightgown, her blond hair messy, for once. Before bed was the only time my grandmother looked like a real person and not some doll, made-up and saying and doing what she was supposed to.

“Well,” she started, stare dropping to the knife I made no attempts at hiding, “I must say, I thought this would happen sooner. I’m surprised that ugly rot in you let you wait this long.” My grandmother, staring death in the face, still talking about the fucking rot.

She talked about it so much it had morphed and become its own person. There were two of me. The me I was when I pretended to be good, and the me chock-full of rot. The real me was, of course, the latter.

My hand gripped the knife handle tighter, waiting for her to scream. My legs were poised and ready to chase after her. I was mentally prepared for whatever she would do; my grandmother would not know another sunrise, that I promised myself.

“So,” my grandmother went on, folding her hands over her lap, her book abandoned on her nightstand, “let’s see it, then. Let’s see if you can really do it, or if you’re just as weak and pathetic as your father.” It was like she knew exactly what to say to piss me off the most.

Something in me snapped. I hopped on the bed, positioning myself over her, and without waiting another second, I stabbed her in the gut. The sharp knife slid into her like she was hot butter, and my grandmother’s eyes widened. She gasped, let out a stifled cry, but I wasn’t done.

She tried to stop me then, tried to get me off her. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t have the balls to do it, but she should’ve known. All my life had been leading up to this. Every single thing she’d ever said bounced around in my head, all the hateful venom in my life… it had all begun with her.

I’d never known love. I’d never known what a real family was. It was too late for me.

My grandmother couldn’t stop me. I tore out the knife from her gut and stabbed her again, this time in the shoulder. I didn’t stop there. My vision flashed red, and the fury in me was blinding. My hand never let go of the knife, not even as my arm went into overdrive.

Again and again and again I stabbed her. Didn’t matter where. I didn’t care. I didn’t stop even as she took her last breath and pissed herself beneath me. I couldn’t stop. All of the rage from my childhood, all of the hatred she’d given me as I grew up, I gave right back to her. It fueled me and the knife as I stabbed her over and over in a fit of horrific violence.

I stopped only when my grandmother’s torso was a mess of blood and guts, and I fell back on the bed, lifting my hands up. The knife was stuck in her chest, the handle all bloodied. The lamp on her bedside table was on, allowing me to see the blood smeared and splattered on my hands.

A beautiful sight, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen.

I managed to crawl off the bed, holding up my hands, unable to tear my eyes off them. My legs wobbled only because the adrenaline coursing through me had faded somewhat, and I stumbled out of the bedroom, barely making it to the hall. My back leaned against the wall, and I sank down to my ass, trying to get my breathing under control.

My mother happened to peek out of her room at that exact moment, and when she saw the blood on my hands, she moved faster than I’d ever seen her. She ran into her mother’s room and saw my handiwork.

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