The Deed

You lock yourself inside your small bathroom, hands trembling as they grip tightly to the sink. No longer is there blood and dirt caked under your nails, a fresh t-shirt and slacks hiding the scratches left behind from your victim. Your shaky hands touch your face curiously, the deep bags in your eyes seem somehow less prominent, now that the deed was done. It was only right to tell them, and what better time than now with the whole family over. Laughter filters through your thoughts and you’re not sure if it’s your own delirium or your family downstairs. You take two deep breaths, attempting to calm yourself, and head downstairs.

There’s no mistaking that the laughter is from tonight’s activities around the dinner table now. You hesitate in the doorway, hands shaking slightly with nervousness. It’s not everyday that you tell your family you’ve become a murderer, but who else are you going to tell?

"Just say it," you silently remind yourself. You knew you'd regret it if you don’t. They’d want to know.

You step into the room and clear your throat softly. No one pays you any mind, so you try again.

“Please, I have something to say,” you begin, but the sentence dies in your throat as eight pairs of eyes turn to face you. How are you supposed to confess to murder? Your little sister looks up at you with a twinkle in her eye. Your aunt and uncle seem bored by your hesitation. Your grandparents look on expectantly.

“Go on,” your father encourages as your mother nods from her own place at the table.

You take a deep breath and look towards the ground as you begin to tell them the entire sordid tale.

“Tonight, before dinner, I went out into the woods to go hunting. There were plenty of deer and small forest-dwelling creatures around, but after hunting those for years and becoming tired of the monotony of those animals, I thought I’d try my hand at something different. I waited in the dark until I heard a truck pull up. There was a man there, probably near my age. He was alone, which was perfect. He got out of his truck and I struck before he had a chance to grab a weapon of any sort. He put up a fight, but I was much stronger. I strangled him and he clawed at my hands, my chest, until suddenly he stopped fighting at all.”

You take another breath and look directly at your father, “Tonight, I killed a man.”

Your father’s eyes darken as you look away again, gauging your family’s reactions.

“Where’s the body?” Your aunt asks, always practical, yet not the first response that you expected.

“It’s in the backyard at the moment under some tarp. I wasn’t sure what to do with it.” You reply.

At that, your family decides to go take a look, perhaps some morbid curiosity overtakes them. Your father is the last to go, placing a strong hand on your shoulder as you follow cautiously behind them all.

When you make it outside, your grandparents have taken the tarp off the body and it’s laying in the mixture of soft light from the moon and the back-porch lights. The body looks cold and stiff and you immediately rub your arms as if you were the one that were laying there, dead. Your mother rushes up to you in tears, arms fling around your body and she holds you as she sobs. You aren’t quite sure what to do in this situation. Your mother hasn’t hugged you since you were young, so you awkwardly place your arms around her, patting her shoulder in a hopefully soothing way.

“I’m just so,” your mother hiccups with her tears, “so proud of you.”

Your father claps his hand on your shoulder again with a smile on his face as your mother goes back to soaking your shirt in her tears. Your grandparents nod approvingly. Your aunt and uncle mutter to themselves, as you hear “about time” from their conversation. Your sister looks up at you as if you’re the greatest superhero in the world.

“When I get big and strong like you, I’m going to kill someone too!” She shouts with glee and she giggles as she runs back over to the body, her face almost nose to nose with the dead man.

“Your first kill is one you’ll remember for eternity,” your father says wistfully, obviously remembering his own murder.

“How did the family do it? When you first killed a person, did you have to move? Did other people find out?” You have so many questions.

“No one knew. I’d done my research and chosen my victim perfectly, planning for weeks to make sure the woman wouldn’t be missed,” your father responds as he gently pries your sniffling mother away from you and leads her inside.

The rest of the family follows, and you find yourself seated at the table again. Everything seems like a normal Sunday dinner, but you feel like everything is different now.

“Does that mean we’ll have to move? Because the dead man might be missed?” Your younger sister asks with a mouthful of spaghetti. Your aunt clucks disapprovingly and your uncle sniffs as he sips from his glass.

“We’ll have to see how this plays out,” your father replies, “and I’ll have to teach you how to be more prepared and careful – for the future.” He adds, turning to look at you.

“I want to learn too, daddy!” Your sister bounces in her chair, spaghetti bits flinging off of her fork.

“In a few more years, sweetheart,” your father responds with a smile, the young girl’s enthusiasm contagious.

The family resumes their normal dinner conversations, your participation kept to a minimum as you’re lost in your own thoughts. You swirl the liquid in your glass slowly, allowing it to coat the sides as you stare into the cup, mesmerised. Blood certainly is always thicker than water.