Page 160 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I can’t remember the name of the stuff she stole from the hospital, but I remember that it was an undetectable paralytic. I waited until Daddy was asleep, and then I stuck that needle in just like she told me to. I kept it simple…a fall down the stairs. But when I looked down at him, I couldn’t do it.

I’m not even gonna pretend I have a heart. I felt nothing for him. I was worried aboutme. What the hell was gonna happen to me with him gone? My mother was almost a thousand miles away. Tori traveled all the time.

I was scared. Of the unknown, of supporting myself…of being lonely.

It’s such weak bitch nonsense, but I couldn’t shake it. I didn’t feel safe with him, but I didn’t feel safe without him, either.

So I saved his wretched life.

I stare up at my ceiling fan. Five blades. Round and round. I have Ace, now. I finally feel safe. But I hate that I can’t trust him fully, or love him the way I want to, the way he deserves. I’ll fake it as best I can, but what if it’s not enough? The part of me that could have loved and trusted him, the soft, tender, open part, doesn’t exist anymore. She died a long time ago.

Daddy killed her.

I head downstairs, my toes curling against the old wood floor. I find Daddy where he always is, slumped in his wheelchair, staring out into the black night.

Tori never said it, but part of me believes Daddy must have done something to her, too. That’s the only way I can explain why she believed me so quickly. Never a single question or doubt from her. And I lied a lot when I was little.

It also explains her lingering fear. The whole, ‘I bet he can still talk’ nonsense. I snatched away her peace when I let him live. In a way, I owe it to her, too.

“Daddy?”

His eyes don’t move off of whatever’s so interesting on the other side of that window. I shrug and drag a chair up beside him, scraping the legs loudly across the floor.

His head turns, just slightly, his eyes finally flickering towards me. It’s quick, but I see it. A flash of fear. His throat bobs as he swallows. He wheezes. Looks away.

Yeah. He’s powerless.

There’s no more plotting. No more manipulating. He’s just a pathetic shell of a man.

The doctors called it Broca’s aphasia. Loss of speaking ability brought on by a traumatic brain injury. I was giddy at the thought of him having no use of anything below the waist, but the idea of all his thoughts being trapped inside his head wasdelightful. Knowing I could say whatever I wanted with no response. I had fun with that, I really did.

But it’s over, now.

I’m gonna say what I have to say, then be done with it for once and for all.

I lean in close, sickened by the smell of antiseptic wafting off of him.

“I just want you to know something,” I say softly. “We’ve never talked about it because…I guess I never wanted to relive it. And I still don’t,” I add. “I just wanna make sure you understand that I’m not one of those pathetic bitches who forgives the people who hurt them.”

His eyes widen.

“I’m not one of those weak ass women who needsclosureso I canmove on. I don’t wanna move on, Raymond. I wanna hate you every single day til the day I die.”

I blow out a breath. “Hating you feels so much better than forgiving you.”

His lips part like he wants to say something, but only a wheeze comes out.

“I hope you’re miserable,” I say. “I hope you dream about me when you sleep. I hope you relive me dragging you out of your bed and pushing you down the stairs. You remember that, don’t you?”

He does. I see it in his eyes.

“You probably thought I’d feel guilty. But I never did.”

I thump the arm of his wheelchair, making him jump slightly. “You’re gonna die soon, Daddy. And when you do, I’m gonna celebrate.”

I stand, smoothing my hands down my thighs like I’m wiping this all off of me.

I walk around to stand in his line of sight, blocking his view of the window. “You’re a piece of shit. Completely fucking worthless.” I smile. “If there’s a hell, you’re gonna burn in it for what you did. And I’m gonna live on, hating you and thriving and being fabulous.”

---