Phobia

10. Fatherly Love

My role model was my father. He was the only family I had, and he was brilliant. He was the silver band, and he treated me like the diamond engraved in it. Caring, selfless and kind - that was my dad.

I remembered how much fun we always had, roaming around the neighborhood eating ice - cream. His hands were full of cuts, rough as he handed me my cone. He always smelled of soap. The smell was overwhelming, like he washed his hands several times a day. He always was so good to me. I loved him. His jokes were so funny, and when he went out to work, he always came back with a gift for me. Sometimes a marble, sometimes a music box. It was always something or the other. His work was quite a mystery to me. I was a child after all, and small children don't know much about their parents' occupations. All I knew was that once a month, he went out and came back in the evening, smelling weird. I remember thinking it was the smell of smoke. He never had any cigarettes with him though. He always forbade me from entering his room. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. He probably didn't want me to mess with his things.

One day, being an inquisitive child, I had decided to explore the house. I was done looking around everywhere other than his room. Giving in to the temptation, I opened Pandora's box and stepped inside his room. The first thing I saw was crimson.

Dried up shades of maroon splattered all over the room like coffee stains on the kitchen counter. And the smell. Oh god, I still remember that awful smell - it was putrid and dense. That was all I saw before my dad's looming figure was in the doorway. "I told you not to look in here." His voice was cold as I looked down, terrified if this version of him. "Forget everything you saw today. And don't even dare to tell anyone about this." I shuddered and nodded. His gaze was as chilly as the snow on the mountains. In that moment, I didn't know my father anymore. Even then, I knew that my dad was doing something wrong. For the first time, I found myself wondering.

That night... that I thought was a dream, where mom was bleeding so much... what if dad... did that too?

Now I can safely tell everyone - my dad, my role model, was a psychopath. He loved his daughter, but he murdered people for money. He killed his wife. I was lucky he didn't try to kill me in fits of rage. So no, I do not feel sad that he's resting in a grave now and I'm giving his funeral speech. If I should feel sad for anyone, it's for the people he killed.

124 people whose lives' worth he tried to give me.