The Murder(6)
Author:John Hansen

    Upon hearing the subtle crunch of dried leaves approaching the door,my soul leaped with thoughts of revenge. My vision sharpened, myeyebrows narrowed… it was time to avenge my mother’s death. Iheard my father whistle merrily, heard the clumsy footsteps of him inhis work shoes skipping up the steps, the gasp as he noticed that thelock had been picked, the shock transforming into anger and thedetermined footfalls of a man who would punish the intruder. Ifonly he knew. I clenched the icy blade in my pocket as he stormedthrough the threshold, inspected the doorknob, fidgeted with it…and I stealthily rose from my position in the corner. I slowly,silently pulled my knife out from my pocket and aimed it at myfather. I bellowed like an Indian chief gathering his troops, chargedat my father as he bent over the doorknob and plunged my knife intohis chest. His eyes bulged with alarm as the blade pierced his heart.He emitted a series of guttural sounds – choking, gurgling, gaspingfor breath – and he stiffened in a horrific spasm of shock and painand crumpled to the floor beneath my imposing presence.

    The wonderful feeling of triumph and exuberance was instantaneous. Istood there – his panting body at my feet – and I felt joyfulinside. Revenge was splendid, even more splendid than I had imagined.

    I stared at my bloodied knife and hand in a sadistic delight andglanced disdainfully down at my father. “Why?” He croaked in amixture of fear and horror. Blood gushed out of his knife wound,ocassionally spurting about. My blood curdled at the question; Inarrowed my eyes and glared at him with a ferocity I never knew Ipossessed. Of course he knew why.

    “Why?” I snarled. “Why? Because you killed my mother, youbastard.”

    I was pleased to see my father’s face whiten. He must not haverealized that I knew. The words hung there, right within reach.Because you killed my mother. His blood pooled around hishead, tentatively poking at his gray hair. And then my father’smouth twisted into something… a hideous smile. My father CHORTLED.Right there. A man dying on the floor, chucking at his killer. Myface flushed, my fists tightened as I felt the anger building upinside of me. And my father smugly laughed on – a gurgling, wetlaughter. “I didn’t kill her son,” he whispered arrogantlythrough a euphoric grin. His gleeful, hoarse voice. My heart hammeredin my chest as I watched the blood engulf his smart business, dyeingit a sickly crimson. He flashed me an unsettling smile that wouldhave appeared slightly more intimidating if it wasn’t masked bypain. I clenched my knife with even more force as he lifted his headoff the ground and opened his mouth to speak. He locked eyes withmine – those hideous brown slits – and whispered haughtily, “Ididn’t kill her,” his smile broadened. “You did.” And with asickening grin that knotted my stomach, his head collapsed to thefloor.

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