Prologue
The first thing my father ever asked me for...was his life...More like begged really.
Soft music played from the old record player as the naked light bulb swung slightly overhead, illuminating the badly bruised figure of Professor Faulkner, who sat bound and gagged in the middle of the basement. It made no sense having his hands tied behind his back, since I relieved him of them earlier, cauterizing the stumps with the bottom of an iron cast skillet. It was more of a psychological thing, to be honest. His dark skin glistened with sweat that no doubt stung the fresh bruises, the faint mustache he insisted on growing trembling above his twitching, swollen top lip. His forehead seemed to have gained ten more wrinkles since tonight as he squinted, head flinging this way and that desperately.
I peeled myself from the darkness behind the basement steps and stalked slowly, my blood-soaked canvas sneakers crinkling the plastic tarp I had arranged to be put up earlier, the key for the cellar door tucked safely in the back pocket borrowed distressed jeans that hung lowly about my hips. The cold, steel blade of the broad kitchen knife was pressed wedged between the waist of the jeans and my bare skin beneath the soft, old band T-shirt that I also borrowed. I hadn’t bothered to find a belt, as I didn’t want to linger too long in the “bathroom”, At least Ezra would come looking for me to make sure I hadn’t tried anything funny. The tip of the sharp blade gently scraped my tailbone with each agonizingly slow step before I halted in front of the old man.
Split lip, blue-black cheekbones, and a nose bent at an awkward angle. His cheeks were turning blue-black now, nose bent at an awkward angle. I made sure to avoid his eyes, for now anyway. I wanted him to seeeverything. I’d wanted him to see Naya too but she was more a fan of fictional body horror than the real deal. She was soft in that sense. And so was I apparently as I took in the now pathetic figure of the once proud man. Something heavy tugged at my heart as I looked down into those dark, watery eyes and my stomach churned the dinner we had only hours ago.
I’d watched him with careful eyes as he dug heartily into the meal. Mashed turnips, beef braised in red wine, and stir-fried vegetables, with a glass of red wine Ezra presented him for his birthday. I couldn’t bring myself to poison his food, it was nice to watch him enjoy his last meal with me. However, his behavior had me reconsidering it. ”Ménage a Trois, huh? Know what that means?” he asked, giving me a look from across the table that left me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. “Of course,” I’d murmured behind my wine glass, taking too big of a sip. I was on my second glass, needing some of the false liquid courage offered by alcohol. “What’s it mean then?” he challenged, wanting me to say it out loud reveling in my apparent discomfort.
Clearing my throat, I’d leveled him a look. “The term ménage trois usually means when an already established couple, most of them are married, have a lover with whom they share sexual relations. However, in more modern times and the answer that you’re looking for it could simply mean three individuals are involved in said sexual relations.” Dinner was quiet after that, injected with compliments on the simple yet delicious meal and comments alluding to his interest in agriculture professor Goldstein, the one who’d given him the parsnips in the first place. Just like every other memory I had of him; this one had to be tainted with his subtle lewdness. It only strengthened my resolve further as I had contemplated forgetting the whole thing, maybe refusing his invites to nightly dinners, dropping his classes, and going the other way when I saw him in the hallways. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid him altogether, he was my father after all. Well, adoptive father to be more precise as he loved to remind me and those around him. Maybe that’s what made it so easy for him. We were bound by legalities, court dates, and pieces of paper. Not blood.
The words that fell from his lips months ago when cornered, reverberated around my skull, which had me subconsciously reaching behind my back with a shaky, sweaty hand. The other one flexed against the cold metal of the knuckle-brass as if it wanted to continue the assault. I shivered as I slid it upwards before bringing it into view, the blade glinting in the sickly yellow light. He breathed heavier, nostrils panting heavily as he tried to find purchase on the plastic to scramble away, but his legs were also tightly bound to those of the chair. A dark mark had stained the crotch area of his khakis, and I remembered it taking everything in me not to hack it off, I wanted him cognizant and alive enough to die with the knowledge that he’d messed with the wrong one.
“You know, if you’d learned well enough to be respectful and oh, I don’t know, man enough to confess your sins to your fellow man as the prayers of the righteous are most effective, instead of trying to use the one thing my sister and I lacked, craved from you, trusted that you’d provide, to throw back into our faces? You’d have lived. For a while longer anyway, long enough to see the error of your ways. If only you hadn’t had the gall, the audacity to think we didn’t have what you have.”
He shook his head wildly, muffled protests trying in vain to wound their way around the gag, as his eyes darted fearfully from the knife, and desperately to my face. “But as you can see, you were wrong. Because I surely don’t see them anywhere. Do you? Where are they, Faulkner?” My voice raised, trembling as I gripped the slick blade tightly in my sweaty palms. Where are they, Faulkner? Because all I see is us two. Never mind what’s behind the tarp, they’re here for me. Me Faulkner. And I’m here for her. But where’s yours, huh?”
Heat rose within me, hot bile salivating in my mouth as I heaved heavily, acidic-like tears stung my eyes and threatening to spill over. I raised the knife, angling it away from his chest just like I practiced. I regretted having to use this one, in particular, it was my favorite knife. The same knife I’d use to prepare those parsnips my foster father had sorted out unknowingly for his last meal I figured it was only fitting that I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to eat my favorite vegetable again without wanting to throw it all up. The same knife Ezra had gifted me with when he heard that the recruiters for my dream culinary arts school were coming for the college showcase. “Where are they?” I spat at him; venom laced tightly in my words. “Where are they now, Faulkner?” I raised the knife even higher. “Where is your family!”
I drove the knife deep into the side of his neck and twisted it sharply before yanking it back out and closing my eyes as warm blood spurted and sprayed across my face and the dark T-shirt. When I opened them again, he was thrashing about frantically, trying to tear himself away from the ropes, trying to scream in vain for the help that would not come. I stared blankly at him for what felt like hours but was realistically only minutes, watching as his movements became less energetic jerkier and more unstable. It was only when his eyes rolled to the back of his skull, and his head lolled forward, his chin hitting his chest with a soft thud that my knees finally gave way, unable to hold the weight of what I’d been planning for so long. My head dropped forward and I allowed the tears to flow freely, shaking my head back and forth as I stifled my sobs. I didn’t even know how I felt. Guilty, relieved, sad. Regretful even.
I did what I had to, didn’t I? I was right in doing what I did. He wouldn’t have stopped, and we had no one to turn to, no one would believe us over the awkward, friendly, smart professor who thought at Stonehill Hill Academy. No one would’ve helped us, he’d have found another daughter probably, maybe another more docile sister we didn’t know we had. Maybe not though. Either way, it’d have to end with me. And maybe it would’ve if I’d only allowed my bravado to take place over my incessant taste, my incessant need to watch karma play out.
I barely had time to process any of these emotions, to fully comprehend or even regret what I’d done in that short space of time when a pair of arms dressed in long white sleeves and covered in dried blood wrapped themselves about me. The smell of artificial peaches and strawberries enveloped my senses and I found my body leaning back into a soft chest as arms wrapped about me even tighter. A round chin came to rest on my shoulder, a smooth cheek resting against my acne-riddled one. “It’s such a shame to put such an amazing reptile to waste, he’d have made a fine chameleon for my collection. But alas, whatever the client wants the client gets. I must say, I did enjoy the performance, Nicolette. Your sister would be proud.” A long finger swiped some of the blood gently from the corner of my lip, followed by a soft wet sound and an even softer moan. I tried my best not to shudder. Who was I to judge someone’s strange desires, after all, I’d spent months on end dreaming of how I was going to kill a man while sitting across from him and smiling in his face.
“Come now, there’s work to be done, my assistant should be just about ready for us.” I was immediately released and my view of my now dead adoptive father was blocked by a pink tulle skirt and a long lab coat covered in even more blood splatters. I looked up into a pair of mismatched eyes, a grey one shining with manic delight and a glassy pink one with a little pink neon heart in place of a pupil. Stretching out her pink manicured gel nails, she grinned broadly down at me, the light illuminating her cotton candy space buns. I stared up at her, hiccupping slightly, before reaching out to grasp her soft, small hands. As she gave it a reassuring squeeze, the tarp that separated the makeshift operating room parted, and a dark-haired guy who appeared to be in his mid-twenties popped his head out. He furrowed his pierce brow but said nothing at the sight, as his gaze lingered on me, and unreadable emotion playing in his grey eyes that resembled the young woman in front of me. Just beneath his left eye was the tattoo of a pink butterfly, holding a long white thread that extended to wrap around a small spider in his cheek. He just jerked his head back towards the room before coming out and walking towards the body.
He already had on a thick, dark green butcher’s smock over his black tank top, his bare lean arms covered in a host of black, red, and green tattoos. He hoisted the body over his shoulder and turned to give me a final glance before walking back to the tarp, parting it and disappearing behind it again. I winced at the sound the corpse made when it hit a metallic surface, wincing even harder at my references to my adoptive father, who was now a corpse and body. I allowed the young woman, Michelle, to pull me up with a small grunt and lead me to the room. She held the plastic open for me and I stepped in gingerly.
Michelle quickly walked past me to the silver table that held sharp, surgical tools while I stared at the long metal slab, stared at the body, it was already taking on a slight ashen grey tone and looked cold. I wish I could stop calling it that but what else was appropriate? He looked so still, so heavy. So very much dead and gone. I did that. Me. Who would’ve thought? My attention was once again recaptured when Michelle turned back around, with that same glint in her eye. She held up a scalpel in one hand and the same meat saw I’d used in the other.
“So, shall what shall we get to first? Slicing or dicing?”
