Like Him

He would put me to bed every night. He would read, so legato that his words sounded like a melody thrumming against my ears. He would make breakfast in the morning, sizzling fried egg on a wheat toast cut into two triangles. When I walked to school each morning my bag moving to a beat, he would smile and wave. His eyes were bright and bold, his hair was thick and lively.

He only put me to bed once a week, his eyes shutting periodically and his words stiff and choppy. He would barely make breakfast, I would climb up the fridge on my knobbly knees to reach the milk to put in my cereal. He never told me to go to school. He just layed in his room, his eyes open wide like his eyelids were being pulled back.

I didn't know him anymore. He was simply a stranger that lived in the same house. I would lay in my bed, waiting for my father to come and put me to bed. He never did. At breakfast the house was silent, there was no food in the fridge. I would fend off of my friends' leftover apples and sandwich crusts. I would see him sporadically, looking at me through his window while I walked to school or coming down to get a glass of water. 

I saw him a second before I ran away. His face was hollow like a ghost's. Pale like the winter moon. His under-eyes look like wrinkled raisins. His eyebrows were bare. He watched me as I pulled up the window. He watched me as I crawled out, my bare knees scraping against the sharp iron. He walked away as I jumped.

---

I never knew why he did it. I would lounge on my sofa, shivering, dinner sitting uneaten in the plastic plate. There was a man on the screen. He looked like my father. But, he wasn't my father. He was a man. A stranger. I would gasp in horror at the vile pictures of poor innocent people lying dead with blood soaking their clothes.

In the mirror, I recognized him. I recognized his eyes, thin and grey like bolts of lightning. His hair was on my head. The only similarity that we didn't have - our hearts. His was dead. His was cold.

---

Everyday I would try to convince myself. That we were two different people. We were only related by blood. I saw our similarities once in a while. He loved ice-cold water. He loved Horror. He loved ginger ale with lime. He had a temper. We were alike. 

But he was the only one who killed innocent people. I would never. 

I am a good person.

I am a good person.

I am a good person. 

---

I drove slowly, there wasn’t another car in sight. The houses were identical in this lane. Grey and windowless. The sky was a cross-patched blanket of clouds. The sun was a faint spotlight. I knew it was our house because of the lone pine tree that wavered in the front lawn, the grass is brown and indigent. The half-moon window was still half-open. I felt my knee, remembering where I scratched it. I looked back at the window. He's stared at me, his mouth bending into a threadlike smile.

---

It happened at dawn. Two bulky police officers were holding a man. A hood was over his head and his body was scraggly and thin. They pushed him into a holding cell, his hood slid off his head. I knew who he was. He sat down on a chair, grinning like he had achieved something. The police officer looked scared as he sat across from him. They interviewed him for hours, but he would go in endless circles. Repeating the same points over and over again. The police were getting tired. Slowly the tense calmness turned to violence. Bangs echoed as they slammed their fists on the steel table. The man muttered one word - Son. The audio became fragmented and the screen went black. The milk shook as I banged on the table, my fists purple. I picked the bowl up, the milk ran down the leg of the table like a waterfall. The glass crashed against the hard concrete ground.

I wanted to hurt him.

I wanted to kill him.

In the broken pieces of glass, I didn't see my reflection. I saw someone else. A different me.

---

Every step feels like a stab to my heart. I walked along the ribbon of gravel, skipping over weeds and big bugs. I didn't want to return. Not here. But I continued walking, my heartbeat faster than my steps. The doorknob was round. I touch it, knowing that he has touched it. Over and over. Inside is a nightmare but my eyes are open. I grip the knife behind my back, twisting it around my fingers. I see the back of his head leaning against a velvety orange couch. Pieces of fabric litter the floor. I know that he's heard me. I continue to walk closer and closer until I can see the freckles on his delicate skin. 

"Father." He looks back. His eyes are cold. His face is dry, dozens of cuts and scratches are drawn on his thin face. I pull out the knife from behind me, he starts screaming. Raspy throaty screams. His eyes turn helpless. I feel like a predator. A lion approaching a striped zebra. I feel powerful. 

I am a good person. 

I grab his neck and pierce the knife into his jugular vein. 

I am a good person. 

Blood pours out like a volcano. He screams. One last scream. Loud and full. I hear the neighbors panicking as they see me through the window. I start to run to the door. It doesn't open. In the rain, I see streaming lights of red and blue. Sirens pound in my ears.

They slide the handcuffs on. I am the same as my father. I am a stranger to myself.