Return to Sender

Content warning: graphic depictions of harm to animals and people, implied religious psychosis, and religious trauma

And just like that, I began seeing my face plastered on every TV in the bar.

The news anchor took up the left half of the screen, my blurry photo covered the rest, framed in with a breaking news graphic. She was a tight-faced woman, with paper-thin lips and hollow eyes.

“Dale Adams, single father and pertinent community member, was found dead this past Monday morning. Police say he was killed the night prior, likely in his sleep. He was found after he did not arrive at the local church daycare he was the director of. The only suspect the police have at the moment is Danielle Adams, his daughter. During the investigation, police found evidence that she may have left town. Any information pertaining to her whereabouts should be directed to the Manchester Police Department. Summer Hills Baptist Church will be holding a viewing and a ceremony for him this Friday, welcoming all in the area. In other news… “

The graphic changes, a speedy whirl of color into a new segment. A tropical storm's off the coast of South Carolina.

The bar rumbled on, no one acknowledging the TV announcement. The clattering sound of the pool table makes my head throb, with three rugged-looking men circling it like sharks. I try to tune them out.

The bartender held a round, scalloped glass, designed for whiskey. He wipes it out with a dingy towel, the cotton fibers clung to the still sticky glass like a cat on carpet. His eyes lingered on me as his fingers toyed with the glass. I saw an ounce of recognition in his eyes.

“Hey there, Missy.” He calls out, his hand sits in the glass now, unmoving. “You look a little familiar.”

“I’ve been told I have one of those faces,” I say, keeping my head down, staring at the old hickory wood counter with decades of cuts, gashes, and stains. I fumbled petty cash out of my wallet, threw a few ones and fives at my section of the bar, pulled my hood over my face, and walked out, without notice or word.

Here's the thing about that announcement. I did kill my dad. I'm not trying to hide that. But you have to understand why.

The sidewalk is barren, peopleless. The only company I have is the cold November rains that pelt me in the face like tiny icicles, daggers to my rosy cheeks.

I have to explain, I had no other choice. I am guilty of the act but I did nothing wrong. I was doing what I had to. I know in my heart, I wasn't scared. I wasn't in danger. I wanted to kill him. But it wasn’t for pleasure either.

My father was a good man. He had his faith. He had the church and the community. He worked as a Sunday school teacher. His day job being the director of the church daycare throughout the week. My father just loved kids. It's a shame my mother died when I was born, I'm certain I would have more siblings than I could count. But my father was nothing if not devout, and he refused to remarry. For both the sake of my mother and in the eyes of the lord.

I never thought the daughter of a man like that could enjoy the sight of blood on her hands, but I'm living proof. My father always tried his best to encourage me to be involved with the church. He’d invite me to the groups of girls my age, participate in bible study groups, or sign me up for vacation bible school every summer. Nothing ever worked, though. I know I disappointed him by not being a loyal follower such as him.

As a child, I was far more intrigued by what was found outside. I was beyond bored with that thin paper, leather-bound book. My father was pleased enough that I at least found joy in what the great creator gifted us. I would find bugs and other animals. I especially loved playing with the bunnies and squirrels. I would have funerals for the ones I was too rough with. My dad said funerals are how you send God's creations back to him. Back home. As I got older and bigger, the funerals became more frequent. More intentional. The weight of the squirrels in my hands, lifeless and unmoving, was so fascinating to see. I'd make it difficult for them to breathe. Wrapping my hands around their throats. I knew they all wanted to go home, too. I’d use old mac and cheese boxes as coffins, and bury them all over the yard. The yard became uneven, bumpy, with unmarked graves of animals of all types. They got bigger as I did. The neighbor's cat, raccoons, I’d trap with makeshift catchers. Eventually, I became old enough for my Daddy to start taking me hunting. I shot my first deer at 11. That was the first time I felt blood on my hands. Not just cradling the lifeless body of little animals.

The deer didn't get to go to heaven. My father said we had to respect the body and use every piece. He mounted the head, and we ate the meat for weeks. He didn't get to have a funeral. Sometimes, even some 10 years later, I have nightmares of that deer. Begging me for mercy. For freedom. I regret eating that deer meat. He belonged in the soil. He belonged in heaven.

Once I started high school, the animals no longer interested me. I didn't like hunting one bit, and I was bored by the smaller ones. I picked up archery and took a lot of anatomy classes in school. Archery didn't have to kill. Most of the time, I focused on target practice. It cleared my mind, posing the bow, and bringing my fingers to my cheek.

The anatomy classes taught me a lot. Like how each muscle plays into keeping us alive, our brains churning. Lungs breathing. Blood flowing. I was always far more intrigued by the cardiovascular system. The wiring that makes every limb work. Learning every important vein, and understanding exactly what the blood does.

It made it far easier to understand how fragile the human body is. I imagined so many ways to take advantage of the unprotected, vulnerable, soft, and squishy spots in the body.

It made it difficult to decide how to take care of my father. After 5 years of ideas, compiled into one chance. One chance to understand the tenderness of human flesh.

My father was a sinner, as we all are. My daddy had a vice, he said it helped him with the grief and troubles of life. He drank a lot. He was ok when I was younger, maybe a few beers every now and then. But he got far worse recently. With the prospects of me leaving, I think he was scared. I'd find him asleep at the dining room table, half a beer in hand, with at least 6 cans in the trash.

He’d wake up early, for the daycare. He’d sip his stale beer from the night prior, and trudge through his day, distracting himself with the kids, knowing the bottom of the bottle would be waiting on him after work. I had to do something before I left.

I didn't want my father to go to Hell. My mother was waiting for him in heaven, I know that much for certain. I knew sinners could still go to heaven, but he was devolving into a drunk. Quickly. I couldn’t see the man, so dedicated and caring, a true follower, be sent to the fiery pits, damned to eternal suffering.

It was roughly 5 nights ago now. He was drunk, knocked out at the table as expected. I woke him- or I tried to.

“Daddy, get to bed.” I said, grabbing his shoulder.

He groaned, the smell of beer intoxicating the air in front of him. I picked him up, and shuffled with him to the room.

“You’re a good kid Dannie.” He said.

I smiled, and opened his bedroom door. His room was a mess, half his pants strown around the floor. His sheets crumpled like old paper. I flop him onto his side of the bed, and he kicks his shoes off, still in his khakis and pale yellow button up shirt. His tie is loose, so I unraveled it from his neck and hung it in his closet.

“Goodnight Daddy. I love you.” I say, turning the light off. The bedroom door still cracked, letting in a sliver of light. I turn on the bathroom light, and close the door. He doesn't notice.

“Night Dannie. I love you too.” He mumbles. Thank you dad. For everything.

I had slipped a knife into my pocket from the kitchen. I walked to the bedroom door, slipping it closed, but staying in the room. I waited til his breathing changed. From rapid, aware and conscious, to slow, relaxed, and asleep. I knew what I had to do. I had to help my father. I had to save him from sinning. I had to send him home. To Momma. I hope he tells her all about me.

The knife tip was so sharp, I tore the first layer of my own skin on it, but it didn't draw blood. I knew I could easily puncture his skin with it.

He still reeked of alcohol. I could smell it on his breath. I took the knife, the blade warmed by my body temperature, no longer a cold silver implement. I used the light from the bathroom to find his Adam's apple. Man’s first sin. I traced it with the tip of my knife, following the bulbous shape.

I found his jugular by padding my fingers around his tacky skin. He was already sweating out his beer. It was slightly raised and felt like a large cable, just beneath the skin. I brought the knife down to where my fingers were. I stood still for a moment, a moment of hesitation. A moment of consideration. My mind was cool, peaceful. I knew what had to be done.

I forced my weight into him, the base of the knife into the palm of my hand. The skin fought and rebounded like leather. It was soundless, the piercing of the knife. I'm not sure what sound I anticipated.

My father's eyes opened, and he began gasping. His hands found themselves on my bicep, crawling to my shoulders.

“I love you Dad,” I say, smiling at him.

A tear rolls down his cheek, onto his pillow, forming a vague heart shape. After a few moments of him weakly pushing my shoulder, his arm fell limp, dangling on the nook of my elbow. His eyes emptied, like a blown fuse.

Blood was everywhere. It leaked onto everything from the moment the knife pierced the skin. I held his head for just a moment. Blood leaked onto my right hand. I leaned down, his hair smelled of old, dead skin, unshampooed for several days.

“Goodnight, Daddy," I told him again, kissing the top of his head.

I was lucky he had a sister, my aunt. Aunt Charlotte, a lonely woman. Never marrying or having children. She moved to the city young, went to college, and became a scientist. She arranged his funeral, being his only next of kin other than myself. She didn't know him, not well by any means. She was never around.

I’m sure the church took on the mantle to arrange it. She just had the cash to buy whatever their hearts desired.

They held it this morning, but I knew I couldn't go. But I did walk past the burial. I wasn't worried about my aunt noticing me, she hadn’t seen me since I was 10. The pastor was who I was more nervous by. But he was focused on delivering the eulogy.

Even still, I tucked my hair into a hat, and dressed like a preteen boy. And looked on. They lowered his body into the ground, cranking the lowering mechanism. Everyone left, except my Aunt, the pastor, and a few other members of the church, those closest to my father. They each took a fistful of dirt and threw it over his casket. The pastor stopped for a moment, clasped his hands, and prayed. I held my head down and prayed in respect. The others do as well.

I told God, “I know my Daddy is a sinner, but please, Lord, allow him to enter heaven. He was dedicated to you, he was a good man. He spread your word. Let him be with Momma, and be happy. I understand if you can’t, but I tried to save him. I did it for you, Lord. And for my father. Thank you.”

“Amen,” The pastor said, clear enough for me to hear.

“Amen,” I whispered to myself.