Vader Moord

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
The love between a father and daughter is like no other, would you ever expect it to go to this extent?

Submitted: June 18, 2017

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Submitted: June 18, 2017

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It's been my father and me since I was four.

I have hazy memories of my mother drinking, and her husband squinting at me in suspicion, and screaming, and the rainy night when my father came back for me. They called me by a name that was not my own and there wasn't an Amber Alert until twenty-four hours later. When people ask after her, I just shrug and say that it's been my father and me alone for as long as I could remember.

My father is my biological father, both of us cut from the same fine silk cloth, our raven hair falling in faces that drove people to madness. He just left me with my mother for a while, until I was old enough to learn from him.

My father taught me much from his armchair, his classical face so full of love. He showed me how to hunt our quarry with a smile and then bleed them dry. How to want for nothing by tugging on an ego or laughing at a stupid joke. How to cajole and con in all kinds of vicious, underhand ways. Such is the nature of our kind, passed from father to son.

Father made sure I got into elite prep schools that smoothed the way for my top research university and studies into biology, but didn't really understand why I wanted these things. He thought it made much more sense to chase after wealthy, lonely people and get their fortunes out of them, like he has done since he was a sixteen-year-old living it up in the French Riviera.

"Sierra, light of my life, flesh of my soul," Father would sigh when I'd come down for breakfast after reading medical texts all night. "You'd be so much prettier if you got your nose out of those books and smiled."

But you all don't particularly care about my father.

I did undergraduate work in my university's biology lab, doing things such as cleaning equipment and prepping for the Bio 200 series labs. Not exciting, but it would make me a shoe-in for the hypercompetitive Genetics Ph.D. program and forged industry and academic connections. The only downside was Harrison.

Harrison was one of the many graduate students. People liked Harrison, for reasons I cannot understand beyond his apparent attractiveness. He played lacrosse and was a blond and bragged about his 'gains' in weightlifting. He spent more time talking loudly than working. Intolerable.

Harrison wanted me bent over the lab table like so many before him. He'd come around my station and try to slip his hand under my lab coat, laughing when I'd bat it away. No amount of disinterest – and my disinterest was legendary – could make him go away. It seemed, in fact, that my rejection made him hungrier, drawing him closer and closer to a frenzy. Obsession, the desperate desire to possess, was one of the downsides of being what I am.

At the end of my junior year, the head of the labs catered a meal for all the student workers. It was loud, becoming more drunken and annoying the longer it went on. I left early.

The night had been dark and clear, and when Harrison came from the shadows to grab my arm was the first time I felt real fear. It had always been I was the predator and the humans were the prey. It felt like a subversion of the natural order when Harrison hissed in my ear, "Take me to your apartment, pretty girl, I know how to make you less of a bitch."

He didn't lessen his grip as he practically pulled me up the steps of my apartment building, his disgusting hands crawling up my shirt as I unlocked my door. When it was shut, Harrison immediately slammed me up against it and threw the deadbolt, alcohol soaked mouth crashing down on my own. I wanted to cry.

"Not so haughty now," Harrison said. "Always knew you wanted it, you little slut."

He ripped at my shirt, and my fear suddenly turned to anger. I've been offered Ferraris and mansions and diamonds for what this man decided he was entitled to take. I've made far greater men than this beg and plead for the privilege of my time, and he decided that he deserved to just steal it from me?

"No," I said, and kicked him in the balls.

Harrison fell to the floor, groaning in pain. I was on him in an instant, knee pressing into his crotch and hands around his neck. Cold instinct, a primordial drive to claw and to bite and to survive at all costs that thrummed through my whole species, took over.

"I wanted you to leave me alone," I crooned at him, as sweet as a lover between my sheets. "You couldn't even manage that."

"I'm sorry!" Harrison yelled. I didn't really care about false platitudes – instead, I took out his jugular with my teeth. It was satisfying in a raw and visceral way, feeling this pathetic creature struggle and then still beneath me as I chewed my way through his neck down to the vertebrae. I pulled away, crouched over him and covered in blood, my breaths coming in pants as I realized that I was soaked with arterial spray and blood was leaking across my floors.

Suddenly, there was the dead body of a popular student in my living room and blood everywhere, his phone pinging with texts and notifications. People would notice if he went missing and even if I mounted a self-defense plea, the detectives would surely notice his gnawed-through neck. No amount of batting my eyelashes would spare me jail.

I sat on top of his corpse and tried to figure out how to dispose of a body and clean up the evidence within the six hours of darkness I had left, without having a lick of experience in the subject. My brain immediately gave that up and I instead ran to my eternal source of comfort and care.

"Papa," I whined into the phone. "Papa, I killed someone and there's blood everywhere."

"You're supposed to be good at planning, I told you to make an emergency kit," Father scolded me. "I should let you deal with this mess yourself, you're an adult now."

"Papa," I cried. Father sighed.

"I can't deny you a thing, mon chou," Father said. "Unlock your door and take off your ruined clothes, Papa will fix it."

Papa did.

Father came with industrial cleaner and plastic sheeting, helping me roll up the body and then wrap it in those black contractor bags. He also took my bloody clothing and put it in another bag, and left me to clean up my floor while he disposed of the body. After everything was cleaned up, Father sat with me in my little apartment, my head in his lap as he told me stories about his first kill and how he had called his father as well to help him clean it up. His brothers had teased him mercilessly for it.

"Just a little sloppy, darling," he cooed. "You'll get better at it."

It felt like the entire campus was out hunting for Harrison, whole crews of people combing through the woods where Harrison's factory reset cell phone and bloody jacket were found, but nothing else. The search tapered off, the disappearance becoming a campus legend. No one bothered to search the nearby lake in the opposite direction. My father had a cabin on the lake, inherited from my second stepmother, nestled cozily into the woods.

Sometimes I go there, when the lake is smooth and brilliant blue, my feet bare against the pebbled shore, and when I stare into the depths of it I smile.

I have gotten a lot better at it. My father taught me.

 

 


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