Family Lies

It hit her.

Her family wasn't her family. 

Her father wasn't her father. 

Her mother wasn't her mother.

She wasn't their daughter.

They were strangers to her.

They lied.

They. Lied. To. Her.

She slightly blamed herself - she could have stayed completely oblivious to this pain, this pain that they lied to her about this, if only she hadn't disobeyed her parent's wishes, had she not went up into the old attic, had she opened up that box - none of this would have happened. She could not go up there in the first place, for, according to her parents, the attic was "far too dangerous for anyone to go into". As far as she was concerned, they had kept to this claim true even for themselves, for the thick layer of dust that covered the attic suggested that nobody had been up there for years.

But, her curiosity quickly overtook, and before she could stop herself, she had climbed into the attic and found the box that would quickly uncoil years of secret-keeping.

She didn't know what to think. Her mind was racing, her pulse was pounding against her chest. 

Fury. Sadness. Pain. Anger. Disappointment. 

She couldn't - didn't - know how to breathe.

She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before, why she had never picked it up.

Why, when her parents looked at her, it wasn't in a proud parent sort of way, but in a different way, a way even now she couldn't figure out.

Why had there never been any pictures of her when she had been a baby?

Why could they never give her a straight answer when she asked where she came from?

Why didn't she really look like either of her parents?

Why didn't they just say she adopted or something, instead of pretending to be her outright parents?

Just...Why?

There were so many signs, but she never picked them up and never knew the truth.

They lied to her for 16 years and pretended, pretended to be something to her when they were nothing. They shouldn't have meant anything to her, but they did.

They were the people who took her from her parents, just like that newspaper clipping said...

A few days ago, a 1-year-old girl was allegedly kidnapped from her parents' home while she was playing in the backyard unsupervised. Here is what her parents had to say about this tragic event. "We are upset. Of course, we are, our daughter was kidnapped, and we don't know where she is. All we ask is that if anyone has any information at all, please contact the police. We also want to say, that, no matter what, we will keep fighting and we will keep trying to find our daughter,"

As she remembered the last words, she let out a sob. Because of these - these people, her actual parents have probably given in on finding her. They probably think their daughter is dead, and all because of them.

Them. They did this.

They knew exactly what they were doing when they took her when they made her real parents think she was dead.

Then, she didn't feel sad anymore. All she felt was white-hot rage.

It was like she couldn't even control her own body. She didn't even realise what she was doing as she slipped out of her bed, creeping along the wooden floor and into the kitchen. She didn't know when she picked out a carved knife, the icy steel glinting in the sliver of moonlight that bled through the covered up windows. 

She hated them. They lied to her, lied to her about who her family was, lied to her about this for years, yet never blinked an eye.

The floor creaked underneath her feet; the door moaning as it was pulled open. The moonlight shimmered through the window, casting a ghastly spotlight on her. They lay there, unaware that their secrets had been unveiled for her to see.

And as she crept to her "father's" side, her hand stroking his arm one last time, a sudden pang of nostalgia to curl up by his side and pretend to be his little girl again erupted in her chest. She so desperately wanted things to go back to the way it was, to feel safe in their arms again and pretend as if none of this ever happened. But even if she pretended, the fact that these people weren't her family would still be engraved in her mind.

But for a moment, the thought of doing so wrestled with her mind. But, in another moment, the feeling was gone, and she was filled with hatred again.

The curved knife in her hand came down, and the walls came alive as his blood covered them, as she stabbed and she stabbed until there was surely nothing left of the man other than his lifeless corrupted soul. 

She crept over to her "mother's" side, and again, she trailed a tender hand across her cheek, having a twinge of regret for what she was about to do, but the carved knife came down again and by now the bedsheets were covered with not blotches of blood, but gushes of blood running down them, like paint on a canvas, and their lifeless bodies aimless splayed upon it.

A piece of art.

***********

As she sat in the front seat of the car, looking into the rear-view mirror, she applied a thick, dark red layer of lipstick before looking out the window at the house she had parked in front of. It was a simple home, small and compact. It had grey stone walls and a small black iron fence that surrounded it. This, paired with the grey clouds that billowed across the sky, made the house have an air of foreboding.

She grabbed a carved knife, the same with which she killed those strangers, the same knife that police allegedly believed to have disappeared, along with their "daughter".

But she didn't care about that. Because as she looked back up to the iron gates and the grey stone walls, she smiled, feeling a surge of pleasure.

This was her real home.