Androphobia

xii. jealousy

"Papá, wh-why are you-"

"Shh, remember what I told you to call me?"

I swallowed shakily, the sharp tip gently nudging against my voicebox.

"Maestro... I-I don't understand."

[Master.]

He tapped the knife once, twice under my chin, then drew it away with a nod.

"You will."

Later, a fitful night of sleep awaited me as I tossed and turned in bed. Sweat lined my forehead and my lower limbs like a glove wrapped around each digit. What did my father mean? Feeling threatened? Cowering or attacking? My mind couldn't process the ideas he'd touched upon in his office, no matter how hard I tried.

From that day on, I observed Sancho's behaviour from corners of the room. When Isla was away and the attention was on him, again he'd play with that stuffed toy, kicking and chewing at it like a puppy. He seemed agitated. There was a tiredness in his once glittering blue eyes, an anxiety rippling over his fur and invading his mind. It was only when he was by my side at night that I caught a glimpse of the dog I'd spent every day with in his gaze.

One fateful afternoon, Isla entered the room bloodied.

I could remember the scent, thick and coppery; the way her tongue lolled and the way her amber eyes glowed victoriously; the red stains that crusted the fur near her mouth. Frantically, I searched for my other dog but it was to no avail. It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth.

We found Sancho dead in the courtyard the next morning.

I didn't let anyone touch him.

I bawled. Held my knees. Rocked myself back and forth beside my best friend's unmoving body until the sun sank in the sky and hot flames burned us both. Hate swelled inside me towards the bitch that had done this. I'd hurt her, just like she hurt him. I'd kill her.

Finally, I dared to stroke Sancho's fur. My fingers shook as they ran through the cold hairs by his ears and softly rub his snout.

That was when I found the cigarette in his mouth.

Father's cigarette.

"Did you do it?"

"Do what, mijo?" he said as he sipped the whiskey from his glass by the window. I slammed my fist on his desk. Tears blurred my vision and he slowly turned his head to arch a brow at me.

[My boy.]

"Did you kill Sancho?" I ground out.

A twisted grin spread across his mouth.

I grabbed one of the glasses from his desk and smashed it on the floor. Shards flew up in the air but I didn't care. There was so much hate. So much anger inside me.

"How could you?" I screeched. "How could you do that to him? You bastardo-"

[Bastard.]

I felt a sharpness land across my right cheek and fell to the wooden floor in a heap of sobs. Weakly, I tried to push myself up but I couldn't. Glass had pierced my hands. Sancho. My poor Sancho. How could he live with a man like this?

"He was no longer fit for this house," my father answered in that cool, unwavering voice of his. My eyes blurred with more tears and low moans of sorrow left my mouth. "He was an old and useless creature who served no purpose other than teaching you what it takes to survive in this home. To survive out there. He was envious, wasn't he? He was envious of our bitch and yet what did you see?" He stepped in front of me and crouched down, blocking the sun from behind him. "He lost to Isla. He was weak."