My eyes had to be lying to me. There was no way on earth that this could be true. The blood must be fake. Somehow he knew I was coming home, so he decided to pull a prank on me. One that would be so traumatic that I would never in my life open my mouth to speak again.
That must be it. That was the only thing that could possibly make any logical sense. There was no way that this could be real. And still I could not help myself. Everything looked and felt and smelled way too real. From the iron I could smell in the blood, to the alcohol lacing the room.
"No!!!" I screamed breaking the silence, not knowing what else to do. Only knowing that I could not keep myself silent any longer.
"You!" he yelled as he came at me, and I knew that from that moment on everything just might change. I would be in a puddle of blood, dead, being dragged outside to become a bed for the new rose bushes that would be here by tomorrow. The only thing to mark my final resting place.
"No!!!" I screamed again and tried to side-step him, but the slippery red substance underneath my feet didn't work well with my new shoes that was way to smooth at the bottom.
I fell.
Hard.
"Help! Mom! Help!" I screamed at the top of my lungs as my father slipped on the same blood I slipped on, which left him falling out of the front door.
Taking advantage of his moment of weakness I scrambled to my feet and dashed up the stairs – two at a time, still slipping slightly from the blood under my shoes. Every so often I touched the wallpaper, staining it with blood that might never be able to be washed off, but I didn't care. It was time that she knew the truth. It was time it all came out. I cannot live with this secret any longer!
"Mom!" I yelled as I came to the top of the stairs, but the only answer came from behind me.
"Come here you little shit! Look at what you've done! This is all your fault!" my father screamed up the stairs. The words that I fear the most. It was my fault...
"No!" I screamed back, not once turning toward him, but rather dashing towards my mother's room, hoping that he would not follow, but also wondering why my mother hadn't come out of her room from all the commotion.
"Elijah!" my father's voice boomed against the walls once more just before I entered my mother's room, shut the door and locked it.
"Mom," I said as a sob ripped through my entire body. I must have been crying all along and not even realized it.
"Mommy... Help..." I cried as I turned around to find her, but she wasn't in bed, sleeping like I thought she would be. She was...
"Mommy... Why are you crying?" Like a little boy I walked around the bed to the other side where she was sitting in the corner on the ground, crying in her hands.
She looked up at me, but she didn't answer. Not even a sob escaped her lips. She was silent. Listening but not speaking.
"Mom? Please... We need to get out of here..." I cried, not sure what I needed to do. I could feel my arms hanging limb beside me. They felt out of place completely.
"It was you..." she muttered, looking down at the ground.
"What?" I was confused.
"You did this... This is your fault..." she muttered as she pulled her legs up to her chest, leaning her head on her knees, not once looking at me.
"What? Listen mom... Dad... He murdered..."
"NO!" she screamed. She was on her feet, facing me, looking me directly in the eyes. Her eyes flaming with murder and mayhem. "You! You did all of this! This is your fault! You brought this into this house!"
I stumbled back, half falling over the corner of the bed as I backed away from her. I have never seen my mother this way. Never seen her blame me for something I had no control over. Something I was totally innocent in.
"You knew?" I asked as I steadied myself against the door.
"Knew? Off course I knew of your sin! Now go and help your father! What you did was disgusting!" she screamed. "Go! Go! Go!"
This time I listened. I went. As quickly as I could get to the door and unlock it I was out of there, stumbling down the stairs in a confused haze, looking for my dad while the word "Go!" echoed around me in the voice of my mother. It didn't take me long to find him. I only had to follow the trail of the blood that left streaks over the carpet and onto the tiles in the kitchen, heading out the back door, where a sound I have heard before woke me up into sanity again.
The digging of a shovel was overwhelmingly loud in my ears. Every time that the shovel hit the dirt it felt like it was hitting into my soul, breaking me apart with each and every blow. Leaving me shattered, but I knew what I needed to do. I knew what had to be done. The same that was done four years ago in this very backyard. The same thing that drove the memories of my loving dad away. The same thing that made me lose my speech.
Murder.
Loss.
Someone I love.
"Dad?" I asked as I walked up to the hole he was forming in the ground. "Why?"
I was calm. I was collected. I knew how to handle this. I needed to handle this. The same way I had handled it before.
"Fucking faggot! Trying to fuck my son! Fucking faggot!" he slurred the words, not looking up. Just continuing on the work at hand – making a hole for a body. He stopped every third shovel and took a drink from a glass bottle, shining in the moonlight. Whiskey.
I just stood there. Watching. Knowing already that I would not be allowed to leave until it was over.
"Black bags," he slurred. "Cover it in black bags."
He was talking to me. I knew it. He wanted me to cover the body with black bags. He wanted me this time not just to look at the body and bare witness. He wanted me to be an actual accomplice this time. He wanted me to be an actual part of the murder. Not that it mattered in any case. In his eyes it was all my fault. I did this. Even my mother had said so.
I turned around and walked into the house. Searching beneath the sink. I found the black bags and before I knew it I was standing next to the body, slowly trying to wedge the legs into a black bag. Not giving a dam that I was crying anymore.
And then...
"Where are you going?" he asked as I started walking into the house.
"More black bags," I mumbled and kept on walking, searching. Looking for my backpack. It had to be here somewhere.
It took me a few minutes to find it. Right at the bottom of the stairs, smeared in blood which I didn't care about any longer, ruffing through the bag until I found it.
Taking the piece of wrinkled paper out of my pocket, I dialed the number on it.
"Hello?"
"It's Elijah. I need you to phone the police," I said, doing my best to keep my voice down.
"Why? Is everything okay?" Kevin asked on the other end. "Do you need me to come and get you?"
"No. Just phone the police. Send them here. Tell them... Tell them that I phoned you please... And send and ambulance," I said as quietly as I could.
"Elijah? Are you sure? I can come."
"No. Don't. Just send the police. And the ambulance. The ambulance is important."
"What the fuck is going on Elijah?" Kevin asked. I could hear the panic in his voice.
"Just do it quickly," I whispered into the phone and then ended the call. Hopefully I would not end up in jail next to my father, but then again, even if that happened I don't care anymore. Maybe I deserve this.
"Boy!" I heard him calling into the house.
"Coming!" I yelled back. Hoping with everything in me that I would be able to delay everything until the police could get here. I needed to delay the burial. They needed to catch him in the act.
As I walked outside I saw how quickly it had dug. The fact that the ground was nice and soft didn't help either. He was moving at a speed I didn't think any drunk person could move at. Or maybe it was because he's drunk that he could move that fast in the first place? I didn't know, but I needed him to stop. I needed for him to take a break.
"I'm sorry dad," I said, not really knowing what else to say. He thought I was guilty, so maybe it was time to play along.
"Fucking faggot touched you," he mumbled. "You wanted it! You wanted this!"
He clearly wasn't drunk enough to fall over his words yet, but he seemed unclear. Like he didn't really know what he was saying. Like he was working on automatic. I have never seen him like this. Usually he was slurring over his words, but at least making some sort of sense. Usually he looked me in the eyes, close enough so that I could smell his foul breath, but now he was looking at the ground.
"Yes... I wanted it." He stopped digging as soon as I said it.
"You are a faggot!" It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
"Yes." The answer was short and simple. "And I will always be one. No matter how many people you kill, I will always be a faggot."
I spat out the very last word like it was something foul and disgusting. Almost like the word left a nasty taste in my mouth. It tasted of old rotten fish.
"You should be in this hole," he said, still not looking at me.
"Maybe I should."
I was calm. I felt brave. For the first time in my life I felt like I could stand up for myself. That I needed to be my own knight in shining armor. Maybe it was because my heart was broken? Maybe it was because I could not just be glued together? I guess when you have a broken heart the sharp shards can be used to protect you from others.
"Yeah..." he mumbled again, almost like he was agreeing with me. That I should be the one in the hole.
"Then kill me," I said, walking over to him. "Kill me. Use the shovel and beat me to death. I won't run."
I stood at the edge of the hole, looking down at him. Challenging him to meet my eyes. Challenging him to get out of the hole and end this terrible cycle once and for all.
"Can't... You my boy..." he answered, still leaning heavily on the shovel, staring intently at the ground.
This was more of the father I have come to know and hate. The one who couldn't properly string a sentence together.
"I'm not your boy! I'm just another faggot!" I yelled. Where it came from I had no idea, but I had to keep him from digging. I needed to save lives, even if it had to cost my own. I needed to do it my way.
"Sharrap..." It was a slur, but I knew what he meant. He didn't believe that I could say something like that.
"I have kissed boys... Many of them..."
"Sharrap."
This time he looked at me. There was tears in his eyes, but I was getting to him. The tears were being replaced by something else. Hate?
"I let them touch me... And I touched back... Held their cock's..."
It didn't matter that I have never done the things I was saying I had done. I was getting a reaction and that was all that mattered.
"Sharrap!" he yelled, coming closer to the edge, the shovel still in his hand.
"And I sucked... And fucked..."
I had tipped him over the edge. He was out of the hole quicker than what I could blink, and he was heading toward me. The shovel held high. I prepared to see my entire life flashing before me. Getting ready to meet my maker.
I didn't want the last thing that I saw on earth to be his face, so I looked down to the side. A bloody mess, but still the first boy I ever loved.
Then it happened.
A/N: This bonus chapter this week is to celebrate 100 followers here on Wattpad. I thank each and every one of you for following, sharing the story, voting, reading and leaving a comment! You are wonderful! Please keep it up!