𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

22. murdering murderers. (pt.2.)

It feels stupid, going on a suicide mission for a stupid duck that would've cost no more than a fiver. But sometimes it's the thought that counts really rings true.

As I get to the street I spent most of my life on I stare at the house that no longer feels welcoming, the thoughts attached have changed into something cold. The warm memories the house held have been exchanged for the cold ones that happened more than I care to admit.

My eyes search for my father's car, but it's not sat in its position in the driveway, the first good sign of today.

I don't know when he's going to come home, so I just need to do this shit quickly.

As I make my way up the stairs I realise I don't have something integral to this mission, a key. "You've got to be joking," I mutter as I rack my brain, trying to remember where my mother hid the thing – she specifically hid it for me, because I always lose my key and end up sitting in the egg chair in the back garden, killing time until someone's home, too embarrassed to admit I lost another one.

I debate trying to call my brother, but the likelihood he has a key is slim to none; I can't tell him I lost the duck. I doubt he'd care, or even remember something he got me when I was a little kid, but on the off chance, he remembers I don't want him to think I didn't value it.

I check under potted plants that are beginning to wither, under the mat sitting in front of the door, I look in the hidden part of the window sill, and nothing. No key.

"All this for a stupid duck," I whisper, dragging my hands down my face.

I'm talking to myself, I need to call my psychiatrist. Someone needs to put me on a mandatory hold.

Looking over my shoulder my stomach sinks as my father's luxury car rolls into the driveway, even from a dozen metres away I can see him eyeing me, clearly displeased with my presence.

I don't know what to do, my mind cycles through ideas, but as he walks up the stairs slowly, I realise none of them can fix the mistake I've made. Why didn't I just break in? Kick in a window and claim a mysterious burglar robbed him in broad daylight, what a travesty.

"You've come back," he observes.

What an astute point, I want to say.

I don't. I just nod like a pussy. My heart beating so hard I'm sure he can see it.

"And what is it that you want?" He asks, flicking through the keys on his keychain, picking the right one, and opening the door I spent way too long trying to unlock.

What am I supposed to say? I want an ornament given to me by the child you claim to love but so clearly hate. Perhaps that's a little too forward.

"Francesca. Are you going to come in or not? I don't want flies to get in," He asks too calmly.

I give him a stiff nod and walk passed him and inside the house. My eyes wander briefly at the mess, bowls stacked high, the TV still on, and a pile of washing strewn outside the laundry room I doubt he's even walked into. It's astonishing how he claimed to be the 'man of the house' like that meant he ran things when a few days without my mother and it all went to shit. Men like my father will never see women as equals, they don't want to admit that in a household, women pull more than their own weight.

"How are you?" I ask weakly. I truly don't give a fuck, but it feels like the right question.

He wanders into the kitchen, not bothering to take off his shoes. Looking down at the wooden floors you can see footprints everywhere. I don't bother taking my shoes off.

"My wife has temporarily moved out, my daughter is being coerced into thinking I'm the bad guy by either my wife or my son, and my boss gave me a written warning because my daughter is acting crazy. What do you think, Francesca? You're a smart girl – aren't you?" He pauses, grabbing a bottle of whiskey that sat idly in the middle of the counter, completely out of place. The fucker isn't even trying to live with any semblance of cleanliness. "I thought you were a smart girl, but you seem to be giving up the life that was being set up for you. You were on track for getting a good husband who would look after you, and what do you do?" He downs a full glass like it's a shot. "You throw it away for some scum, and then blatantly parade that around by getting a pregnancy test."