Page 2 of A Beautiful Crime

My hand trembles with the weight of the cold but not foreign object.

Sweat beads at the back of my nape and drips down my spine.

My hair serves as a black veil, covering my fear stricken face.

I swallow heavily but it’s painful. My mouth has gone terribly dry. It’s like swallowing sand, grating against the esophagus as the saliva forces its way down.

The plastic beneath my feet crinkles like paper as I take a hesitant step forward.

It’s the muffled cries coming from the gagged mouth that are the most deafening. They make my ears bleed. Only more blood spilt of my innocence.

Tears like a river flow wild and fast down my face. Too many to conceal. Too many to try and collect. They hit my chest as they flow down my face. The salt of my tears burns my skin. As it should. This is the last time my tears will ever have meaning. The last time I’ll cry because of my humanity. With each drop that hits my skin it’s like Holy Water trying to keep the monster from emerging.

Except it’s too late.

It’s always too late.

There is no saving.

There is no hero.

This is where I fall.

“You know what you must do, Carina,” my papa speaks to me in a soft tone that is not to be mistaken for kindness. I’ve learned at a young age it’s the soft tones one should be afraid of. The soft tone is meant to mislead you, to coax you into lowering your guard, to deceive you. It’s the soft tone that kills.

I squeeze my eyes shut, naively hoping it will get me out of this nightmare.

“Carina,” papa continues in that soft tone that sends ice down my spine. I stiffen. My muscles locked excruciatingly tight. I feel like I might snap.

The muffled cries grow louder. The stark contrast of calm from papa and the anxiousness from the young man tied down before me is disturbing.

It rattles me down to my very core. I suppress the shudder that wants to rack my entire body.

“He betrayed us, Carina. He’s a traitor. You know well enough what happens to traitors,” he tells me coolly.

I do.

I do know well enough what this means for the young man before me.

But I can’t comprehend why papa has me being the executioner.

Why must my hands be stained when he’s always kept them pristine?

Why must I have a rebirth?

And why must it be this way?

“Papa.” My lower lip trembles as my voice shakes. It’s a mistake that I can’t afford but with my mind under extreme duress I can’t think before my actions.

He inhales sharply. The sharp inhale is worse than his soft tone. The sharp inhale is the only sign he shows when his temper is flared.

When papa’s temper is flared he becomes more monster than man.

I have the sudden urge to flee. For my legs to carry me as fast as they can and hide.

“If you do not finish this, Carina then I will have to finish this for you. And if I have to finish this for you then that means I will be using another bullet,” he says it so casually. Talks ofmurder, of callously killing like he is discussing what to have for breakfast.

“Please, papa. Please,” I beg, well past in control of my thoughts and actions.

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