Page 111 of Vicious Hearts

I think that’s when I knew. Before I even screamed her name. Before I even slammed on the door. Before I even smashed it in, going numb as my eyes landed on her body lying in the tub of opaque red water, the razor on the tiled floor in a smaller pool of blood.

I knew she was already gone even as I wrapped her in a blanket, not caring about the blood I got on my shirt, put her in my car, and drove like maniac all the way to the hospital. I ordered them to take care of her, even though we all knew there was no person left in there to take care of. I screamed at them like a fucking devil to put her in that fucking hospital bed, put the fucking tubes in her NOW, and get her back to life.

But there was no coming back from where Saoirse had gone.

And they never. Fucking. Came.

Our parents weren’t home when it happened. But I left them both easily a hundred messages. Nothing.

One of the people from the hospital gently asks me if I’m ready to talk yet about Saoirse’s final wishes. About her burial, or perhaps cremation, and the steps that need to be taken first.

I tell him not to fucking touch her. That I’ll be back.

Then, I’m driving home just as maniacally as before.

Their car is in the driveway.

I know full well the monster my father is. I know my mother is bowed under the weight of his firm rule, to the point of ignoring me time and time again when I scream at her about what is happening under our roof.

I want to believe that somewhere behind the fear of her husband, my mother is still a good woman inside. But she hasn’t even responded to any of the messages I sent, and it makes me want to rip the house apart piece by piece as I slam on the brakes and shut off the engine.

I don’t really clock the absence of any of my father’s men or guards. But I do notice the kitchen door is cracked open. When I kick it in the rest of the way with my foot, everything freezes.

I instantly know she’s dead. Her eyes are open, but there’s no life there—her head hanging limply to one side as my father shakes her. He stops, turning to me with whiskey on his breath and madness in his eyes, seeing me standing there cold and still in the doorway.

“What did you do?”

He sneers at me. “Don’t look at me and pretend to feel a fucking thing, Cillian,” he snarls. “Don’t fucking lie to me and pretend you’re normal. Or a human with a soul. We both know you’re not.”

“What. Did. You. DO.”

He chuckles darkly, glaring at my mother before letting her drop, her head hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

“She wanted to leave me. Can you fuckin’ imagine? After all I’ve given her.”

This stops. Now.

This madness is fucking OVER.

My father turns back to me, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you fucking look at me like that, you little monster.”

I step into the kitchen and shut the door behind me. Suddenly, everything’s still and quiet.

“What are you going to do about it, you little freak?”

I ignore him, walking over to the kitchen counter.

“The fuck do you think you’re going?”

I’m utterly calm as my hand closes around the handle of one of the big carving knives in the wooden block, just as his meaty hand lands on my shoulder.

“Don’t you fucking ignore me, you little bastar—”

I whirl and push the knife slowly into his stomach.

His eyes bulge.

“Why—?”

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