Page 3 of Was I Ever Real

The pull of his pants zipper echoes like a detonation inside of me and I finally snap.

I will lose myself within the feeling threatening to kill me if I do not act now.

“No.” My voice is barely a whisper as I hastily tug my dress back down my legs.

I cannot look at him. I can’t.

His hand strikes my cheek, whipping my head to the side. I’m shocked into silence, my palm on my burning flesh while I look up at him with wide eyes.

Anger flares his nostrils like a bull. “You will obey me, child,” he hisses through clenched teeth, looming over me, his pants half undone. He tries to shove me into lying on my back, but I resist. I don’t think he was expecting me to fight, and I use it to my advantage. Struggling to my feet, I gather all my strength and push him off me.

“No!” I scream with all the breath still left in my lungs. No longer thinking rationally, I grab the small stone sculpture beside me and strike him in the head as hard as I can.

He stumbles backwards, eyes etched in shock and in the span of one long blink, I watch him trip over his own feet, arms flailing, his temple slamming against the corner of the desk. He crumples to the floor like a sack of bones, face first into the rug.

I force air into my tight lungs, my trembling hand slowly covering my mouth as I gape in the horror of what I have done.

“Father?” I croak.

I fall to my knees beside him and tug on his shoulder but he remains unmoving.

“Father?” I repeat again, tears now streaming down my cheeks.

I try moving his face to the side but realize in horror that a pool of blood has begun to form under him. His dark orbs remain unblinking.

I let go of him, sucking in my breath, a low pained gasp traveling up my throat.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I scramble to my feet, moving away from my father’s body, desperate to distance myself from what I have done.

I’ve killed my father.

I’ve slain our prophet.

The realization and its implications carve themselves into my skin—no deeper still—into my now-damned soul.

I stand in the middle of the study, paralyzed while my body trembles uncontrollably.

I hear laughter drift up from the open window. My gaze jerks towards it and then back to my father. The dichotomy of both things is barely making any sense and I suddenly know that there’s only one way out of this. Only one way out of this unforgivable sin I’ve committed.

Adrenaline and unadulterated fear strum through my veins while I reach for the door, unlock it andrun.

Chapter 2

Twenty-two years old

Thevinylcreaksunderneathmy weight as I slide into the diner booth, my younger cousin Bastian sliding in after me, and my best friend Byzantine settling across from us. The restaurant is a damn near ghost town at this time of night, my eyes quickly sweeping the place trying to find where the hell Martha can be hiding.

I finally spot her and wave her over.

“Evening sugar,” she says, beaming at all three of us as she walks over to our table. “Haven’t seen the likes of you in these parts in a while. Hungry? Of course you are, Lord look at youse. Skin and bones every single one of yas!”

Martha is quite possibly as old as the diner, her graying hair dyed an unnatural shade of red, black eyeliner always smudged, but she also makes the best boysenberry pie in SoCal.

“It’s been a busy year,” I say with a side grin, giving her a quick wink.

“I’ll say,” Martha replies, hiding a small sniffle and giving my shoulder a soft pat.

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