All Grown Up

“Grow up!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes at me as I stood there trembling, the bloody knife quivering in my hand. I knew this was coming. This is what our family does. I’ve known it since I was just a baby. I remember going out with mom and dad late at night, following our prey. This is how we survived but my tiny, eight-year-old brain was struggling with the idea of plunging a sharp knife into a still-breathing body.

My sister snatched the knife from my small hand and in one fell swoop slung the blade along the poor man’s throat, sending blood spatter across the room. “Seriously,” she snuffed, the annoyance dripping from her voice. “My first time I was six. You should have done this by now. I won’t help you next time.” She drove the knife deep into the dead man’s chest and stormed out of the room.

Grow up, I thought to myself. Stop being such a baby. Tears welled in my eyes. This sent me into a tailspin. I grabbed the slippery knife and pulled as hard as I could, fueled by the sound of cracking bone tearing flesh. The force sent me flying against the wall behind me. Without another thought, I lunged at the carcass in front of me and with wild abandon, stabbed repeatedly until my small little body went limp from exhaustion. 

My father stood in the doorway, watching. He was a gentle man – to me, at least. He scooped me up in his arms, my entire body covered in the blood of someone I didn’t know. “You’ll get there, little one,” he said as he carried me upstairs and drew me a bath. I sat in the steamy room, the light pink water a love note of what had just happened in the dark, damp basement of our airy home set on twelve acres of green, lush land. I made myself a promise to do better next time. I wouldn’t think. I wouldn’t worry. I would simply kill.

I didn’t have to wait too long. I heard the car doors slam shut and the grumble of the old truck roaring to life. They were on the hunt once again. My sister stood in my doorway, watching me as I watched the truck barrel down the long driveway. My skin pricked at the sound of her voice.

“You think you’ll actually make it through this one?” she questioned, a hint of disdain in her voice. I glared at her as I turned around. She rolled her eyes, turned sharp on her heel and faded away down the hall. “We’ll see,” she sang as she drifted away.

My sister was four years older than me. She was incredibly tough at the ripe old age of twelve. I suppose six years of brutally murdering anyone my parents brought home definitely added a level of grit usually saved for those with far more life experience. She walked around like she was at least twenty, all salty and ready to fight anyone who looked at her the wrong way. I often found myself on the other end of that angst.

Maybe her demeanor is what kept me afraid of following through with the actual act of taking someone’s life. The fear of turning into her; some hard shell of who I was, who I could have been. I shook my head at the thought. I’m a part of this family. It’s my turn. This is my time to shine.

I paced nervously in my room, waiting for the gentle roar of the truck, gliding down the long driveway, under the house and into the damp darkness. I woke to the flash of headlights, the grumble of the truck still a ways away. My stomach flipped over and over again. My body began to shake. I jumped to my feet, a little unsteady. I turned, frantically searching for my apron. As the panic set in my sister chuckled in the doorway, the apron swinging from her thin finger. I glared at her, sweat beading at my hairline. 

“You sure you’re going to need this?” she asked, a thin smile creasing her pale face. I lunged at her, angry and red. “Whoa,” she chuckled. “Fine, but don’t come to me when you get scared. Like I said, I won’t help you out of it this time.” She handed me the apron.

A placed it over my head and tried to tie it behind my back. “Let me,” she said, calmly. “I can do it!” I yelled. “I’m grown UP now!” She cocked an eyebrow and turned me around sharply. “We’ll see,” she whispered in my ear as she pulled the knot tight. 

I stopped at the top of the stairs with my sister next to me. I could feel the heat permeating off her skin. She was excited. I was scared. My small hands trembled as the muffled screams poured up the dark staircase. My sister reached over and laced her hand in mine. “You’ve got this, little one,” she whispered into the darkness. The door opened and a faint sliver of light crept up the stairs, washing over our intertwined hands. My father’s head peeked around the door. “You ready, little one?”

My sister gave my hand a small squeeze. I couldn’t tell if it was her hand or mine that was sweating but, with a deep breath, I let my hand slide out of hers and slowly made my way down the creaky stairs. As I got closer to my father, the screaming became more intense. I stopped, a small quiver in my chin as I stared up at my father’s soft eyes. “You know what to do,” he whispered as he kissed the top of my head. 

My mother stood next to a bloodied, fat man covered in a mixture of sweat and blood. He was wearing a thin white tank top, now stained a deep red and muddied khaki shorts. He had long white socks and no shoes. His grimy hands were chained above his head and he reeked of fear. A filthy sock was shoved into his mouth. He was sobbing. I watched as his big belly bounced up and down each time he screamed, showing a bit of pale flesh covered in dark hair. 

I glanced at my mother, her eyes fixed on me. She was a cold woman, hard to read and harder to believe she loved me. I knew that this was my chance. That this – murdering this man was the way to her heart. 

“You’re grown up now. You can handle this,” my father whispered from behind me. I took a deep breath, my eyes still locked on my mother’s. She nodded, then dragged a sharp knife along the hip bone of the screaming man as she walked toward me. A thin line of bright red started streaming down the man’s shorts. His brown eyes were bloodshot and his voice was getting raspy from screaming. 

“We’ll wait,” she said, as she placed the knife in my small hand. She wrapped her warm fingers around mine and gave me a squeeze. She smiled gently. I knew I couldn’t back out now. I heard a small creak on the stairs behind me. I glanced to find my sister, smiling and nodding. You got this she mouthed.

I walked forward towards the man. I nearly threw up at the stench of his sweat mixed with fear and the metallic smell of blood in the humid air. He stared down at me, eyes wide, full of terror. With a deep breath, I arched my arm back and plunged the blade deep into the soft part of his belly. He screamed wildly, his body thrashing against the chains holding him up. 

I turned to see smiles across the faces of my entire family. I was filled with elation. The fat man’s head rolled back and he stopped thrashing. I yanked the knife from his belly and he screamed again, his eyes wide and frantic. Blood poured down the front of his shirt, spilling all over the floor. I giggled at his terror. Something inside of me snapped. I blacked out and woke up next to the fat man on the floor, full of holes and one of his eyes stuck to the end of the bloodied knife.

I turned towards my family, my eyes wide. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d just done, however, the evidence sat dead and bloodied in front of me. My mother was beaming. My father stood proud. My sister ran to me and gave me a huge hug. Somehow, my act had softened the hardened shell around her, and she was just my twelve-year-old sister. “Good job,” she whispered in my ear. “I knew you could do it.”

The phone rang. My dad turned to answer. “Sheriff, yes, we’re ready for you.” I smiled, still holding the knife in my stained hand. I set it down gently and stood next to my sister. “What now,” I questioned, still stunned that my hands had done all that damage.

“Now we wait,” my mother replied. “The sheriff will come with his truck and take it from here.” She walked towards me and knelt in front of me, her face close to mine. Her soft breath was warm on my cheek. “I’m very proud of you,” she said, a small smile crossing her face, her eyes soft and gentle. She brushed a stray hair from my eye. “You should go wash up.”

I looked past her, towards my father. “Come on, little one,” he said, his big hand outstretched towards me. I slid my fingers in his and walked up the stairs with him. “You did real good,” he said, his eyes beaming down at me. I smiled, proud of myself. I was all grown up now. 

“I like that we’re cleaning up,” I whispered as I stood in the bathroom, the water running as my father filled the tub. He turned to look at me, taking a seat on the edge of the tub. “You understand why we’re “cleaning up”, right, little one?” he questioned. 

I had a vague understanding but wasn’t entirely sure of all the details. I’d seen the maps my parents printed and hung in the office with all the little red dots and names of people – mostly men. I felt sheepish for not fully grasping what the words on the map meant – Sex Offenders in Your Neighborhood. I wasn’t sure what “sex offenders” meant.

My father could see the angst on my face. He patted his knee and I walked towards him, my face in a small furrow. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s complicated. Just remember, the people that we’re “cleaning up” have done awful things. These people, they hurt little kids – kids your sisters' age, your age and even younger than you.” My eyes widened. “We can’t let them continue doing awful things.” I nodded my head vigorously. “We work with the sheriff to keep our town clean and safe. You’re a part of that now,” he said, as he kissed the top of my head. 

I took a deep belly breath and let it out with a huff. “I’m grown up now. It’s my responsibility to make sure none of my friends get hurt. I’m glad I could help.” I smiled as my father’s eyes turned soft. “Me, too, little one,” he sighed. “Now, get cleaned up. Tomorrow’s another day.””

He closed the door and I slipped into the warm water full of bubbles. The water again turned a soft tinge of pink. A small knock on the door shook my attention. “It’s me,” my sister whispered and slipped in the door quickly, shutting the door softly behind her. “How are you feeling,” she questioned. She seemed genuine.

I looked at her with confusion crossing my face. I felt fine and I couldn’t understand why she was asking. “Why,” I whispered. “Should I be feeling something specific?” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “No, ding dong,” she replied, once again annoyed at me. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re doing okay. That was a big thing that happened. My first one was hard. But if you’re fine –“ 

“Wait!” I cut her off. She turned back to me, her brows raised. “I do feel a little strange. My hands are tingling and there’s this lump in my stomach that keeps jumping around. Is that normal?” She sat on the toilet and put her feet up against the edge of the tub. 

“Yep,” she said. “Totally normal. I mean, you did murder someone tonight.” I stared at her, my eyes as wide as could be. 

“I did?” It hadn't occurred to me that I committed a crime. I just thought this is what my family did. It was my heritage.

“Duh,” she said, picking at a hangnail. “That’s what we do.”

“Am I going to be mean like you now?” I questioned.

She glared at me. 

“I don’t mean it like that,” I stammered. “I just, I like it when you’re nice to me – like tonight. I don’t want you to go back to being mean. And I don’t want to be mean, too.”

She dropped her hand and cocked her head. “You’ll be just fine, little one.” She leaned down, kissed the top of my head and made her way towards the door, calling out tomorrow’s another day as the door shut behind her.

I helped clean up our town, I told myself as I snuggled in my bed, watching the full moon peeking in through the curtains along my bedroom window. Below me I heard the low rumble of the truck start up. Tomorrow’s another day I mused, a small smile across my face as I drifted off to sleep.