he growls, and I involuntarily cringe, afraid, always afraid, that Father is going to hit me.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to help me. Get an old blanket.”
I get up and rush toward the closet. A part of me thinks about running for the phone, calling the police and telling them that my father’s crazy and a woman has fallen down the stairs.
But they’ll just laugh at me like the last time. Or even worse, it’ll end up like the time I told them that he kept feeding my mother drugs and would beat me. I should’ve known that the officers would stand by my father. They told me false accusations are illegal and they couldn’t believe I was acting like this because my father told me that I had to do chores before he’d get me a new video game. And of course they instantly told my father, making everything worse.
How has he brainwashed this whole fucking city into thinking he’s god’s gift to mankind? I swear they believe every word he says no matter what the proof before them looks like.
So instead of going to the phone and making a call that will end with more hits, more words spit at me in anger, I step up to the closet and pull it open. I grab one of my father’s favorite blankets and pull it free before carrying it back to him. He seems annoyed when he sees the blanket I’ve picked, but he takes it and lays it on the ground. Then he picks her up and sets her on it.
“Grab the rug and stick it in a garbage bag,” he says.
I’m just glad I can’t see the woman’s face now that she’s been wound in cloth. It’s like our very own mummy that we’re hiding from straying eyes.
“Father—”
He turns on me, eyes sharp, making me instantly drop mine to the floor. “What?”
I was going to ask him again if we could report it, but I lose my nerve. “Are you going to burn the rug?”
“Yes, of course. Get a garbage bag and meet me at the car.”
I nod and head down the stairs with the rug in my hands. As I stand in the kitchen, I watch the floor as blood drips from the rug onto the tile, pooling next to my foot. Did I track the blood throughout the house? I almost hope I did. I can’t stop staring at it until I hear the door slam as Father rushes in.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he yells as he grabs the rug from me and shoves me back. “I swear to god your brain doesn’t fucking work.”
Is it my brain that doesn’t work?
He stuffs the rug into a garbage bag before grabbing a rag. Once he’s cleaned the floor, he ushers me out to the car and I grudgingly get in, not understanding how I became a part of this horrible nightmare. As he drives and drives, my mind races, every thought darker than the last.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. I’m caught up in a nightmare.
Father glances over at me and I cringe away like it was a blow instead of a look. “You understand that this can’t get out, right, Killian? It was an accident that she fell. I feel awful about it, but there’s nothing we can do.”
I nod before turning toward him. “Of course. Wait… you thought I thought you killed her?” He pushed her, didn’t he? Would he push her? Even if he didn’t mean for her to die, I could see him pushing her.
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “No one said that.”
“No, of course not. That’s why I was surprised.”
He ignores me then as he drives off to a wooded area before parking the car. He opens the trunk and pulls a shovel out, which he thrusts at me, before he picks the woman up and starts carrying her. I follow after him as we walk in the dark using the light of the full moon to guide us. The shovel feels like it weighs more than my body as I drag it after me. And as I follow my father’s back, I question what keeps me from lifting the shovel and striking him with it. Would that make it end? As my thoughts race around in my head, we walk for what feels like an hour before Father stops and points to a spot. “Dig here.”