Homewrecker

“W-w-why?” Emily whimpered at last, with a raspy voice from her screams.

           Those were the first words she uttered in what felt like years for them both.

“You will find out why, if you answer my question correctly.” The man said from across the table.

           Emily could feel her arms getting sore, as her hands were cuffed to the back of her chair.

“Is my f-f-father still alive?” Emily asked, nervously eyeing the bloody knife on the kitchen counter behind them.

           The man grabbed the glass in front of her and chucked it at the wall. The impact roused a startled yelp out of her. Emily’s mouth salivated a moment later. What she would have done to have a drink from the whisky bottle standing between them. Such a sweet and radiant relief for her frazzled nerves it would have been. So much for that now.  

“I’m the one asking questions here.” The man hissed, whisky wafting from his breath.

           Emily swallowed her fear, wishing it could be a shot of whisky instead. The man before her had already helped himself to three of those.

“Is that clear?” He asked.

           Emily quickly nodded her head.

“Who am I to you?” He asked.

           Emily gulped, then spoke.

“Y-y-you’re Mr. Black, my psychology t-teacher.” She replied.

“Wrong!” He snapped, smashing his own glass against the floor, making her jump.

           Emily’s bare feet were now also resting on the chair, and her knees were drawn up to her chest.

“Answer the question carefully this time.” Mr. Black said, and she followed his eyes to the bloody knife.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!” Emily cried, with fear rising shrilly in her voice.

           She began to hyperventilate, with black dots filling her vision. Emily had already fainted once, when she saw the mess of her father’s decapitated leg downstairs in the basement. Mr. Black had caught Emily before her head hit the ground, then carried her upstairs.

“Can’t have you falling asleep again.” Mr. Black said, standing up and grabbing the whisky bottle.

           He caressed the back of her head with one hand (making her flinch) and pressed the bottle to her lips with the other. Mr. Black only allowed her two small sips before taking it away. Emily whimpered, craving more. But it was enough for the television static in her vision to fade away.

“Please?” Emily begged with puppy eyes, pleading for more to drink.

           Like black holes in the sky. Her mother, an avid Pink Floyd fan, had complimented on her eyes often. She was away on a business trip but would be returning today for the holidays.

           Emily also had long black hair, taking after her Latina mother, but pale skin taking after her Caucasian father. Mr. Black on the other hand was part Irish and Italian, a combination that explained his venomous temper. His skin was pale, taking more from his Irish side.

“No more whisky for you, because you’ve been a bad little elf.” Mr. Black replied, who was dressed in a Santa suit, which made him look ridiculous with his bifocals on.

           Mr. Black was often a jokester in class, making students laugh, including Emily. But she had found his smile slightly unnerving however, which never seemed to reach his eyes. Although, she never thought much of it. Perhaps he was just a high-functioning sociopath that could handle a high-pressure job with ease and meant no harm to anyone.

           Then came the unproven rumors that he had made an attempt on a former student’s life, several years after that student had spiked his coffee with laxatives. Elena was her name, and she was last seen in Pismo Beach, California, far away from here in Round Rock, Texas. She had been known to be quite a prankster when she attended school.

           Emily hadn’t believed those rumors before, but she sure did now. She on the other hand was a well-behaved student, never giving Mr. Black any trouble. Emily was asked out by quite a few boys at school. But she had always been too shy to say yes, often hating herself afterwards. She regretted never allowing herself to be loved, and now feared that door was closed, along with her time left on Earth.

“That wasn’t intended to be sexual, was it?” Emily asked, feeling feverish at the thought of him punishing her for being a bad little elf.

           Emily was blindsided by a sudden backhanded slap to the face. She gasped and felt a warm trickle of blood beginning to trickle down her nose.

“My apologies. I had no choice but to knock some sense into you after such a ridiculous question.” Mr. Black said, plugging a tissue in her nose to stop the bleeding.

“What do you want from me?” Emily whimpered softly.

“Who. Am. I. To. You?” Mr. Black asked again.

           Emily swallowed hard and her mouth twitched, not knowing how to respond. Her eyes teared up with frustration. Mr. Black dropped a stack of polaroids before Emily, making her jump. He stood up and picked up the knife, making panic rise in her throat.

“N-n-no! Please! I’m sorry! I don’t know what you want!” Emily cried.

“Shhhhhh…” Mr. Black said, placing a silencing finger over her mouth.

           Emily felt the knife press against her back, and she held her breath. He unlocked her cuffs, and she exhaled with relief, as blood flowed into her arms again.

“Give those polaroids a good look.” Mr. Black said.

           Emily gulped and grabbed the stack with trembling hands.

2

           The revelation hit her like a tidal wave. All the melanin drained from her skin and a nuclear reaction brewed in her stomach. Emily quickly dropped the polaroids back on the table and put her head down. She gagged and swallowed hard, fighting desperately to keep herself from throwing up.

           Mr. Black placed the knife back on the kitchen counter and went back to her. Emily didn’t resist when he placed his hand over her stomach and rubbed it, helping her nausea fade away. She sat up and looked at him with tears beginning to stream down her face.

“D-d-daddy?” Emily spoke, feeling more like an eight-year-old than eighteen.

“The truth is hard to stomach, isn’t it?” Mr. Black said.

“You’re not going to h-h-hurt mom, are you?”  

“We’re all just going to have a little talk, like a real family for Christmas. Something I’ve been unfairly deprived of all these years.” Mr. Black said.

           Emily sniffled, wishing she could believe him.

“That homewrecking Grinch downstairs stole you both away from me. I thought your mother had shipped you off into adoption when she ended things between us. It turned out your mother had been ho ho hoeing around with him for years and manipulated you into believing he was your father. You have no idea how difficult it was for me to wait until you were an adult to reveal the truth to you. No child should carry such a burden.” Mr. Black said.

           They both went quiet after hearing a car door shut outside. Then, the sound of a key twisting into the lock of the front door.

“Mommy!” Emily cried like a child, before getting her faced stuffed with a towel of chloroform.

           She fainted and Mr. Black picked her up and laid her down on top of the dining room table, safe from the shards of glass littering the floor. A scream in the doorway filled him with Christmas cheer.

“You’ve been nothing but a naughty ho ho ho all these years missus Claus.” The sadistic Santa spoke with a grin.

           His hatred for her brewed in his head for years like a brain tumor. Emily’s mother caught herself against the wall but couldn’t stop herself from fainting.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! You all get nothing but coal!” Mr. Black’s voice boomed triumphantly through the house.

           A helpless shriek echoed from the basement. Mr. Black grinned and grabbed the knife off the kitchen counter. There was still work to do, and no one would look for them until January 1^st. That was plenty of time to correct them for the irreparable harm they caused him, all these years.

3

“Look at her. This is probably the best sleep she’s had in months.” Mr. Black said.

           The girl, Emily, was out cold on the dining room table, snoring lightly. Her mother, on the other hand, was seated in a chair at the table, with her hands cuffed behind her back. She swallowed her fear, knowing there would be consequences for her life’s choices.

           Emily’s mouth twitched and she whimpered, her mind recoiling in the depths of an introspective nightmare brought on by recent events. Mr. Black took Emily’s right hand in his and brushed her hair with his left hand. Her hand tightened around his and her body curled into a fetal position, taking refuge in the outside force, pulling her free from this terrible dream. Her breathing slowed, and she drifted back into a deeper sleep.

“How could someone so innocent be born from such a poisonous womb?” Mr. Black spoke.

“She is not your daughter!” Her mother hissed.

“Oh really? I have photographs and official documents that prove otherwise. You can continue to live in your delusional fantasy that the gimp downstairs is her father, but I know the truth. And so does she.” Mr. Black replied.

“You told her that??” Emily’s mother spoke, anger rising in her voice.

           Emily whimpered, and he gently rubbed her back, lulling her into a deeper sleep again.

“You know, out of all the dipshits I teach in my psychology classes, she is the least abrasive. I sometimes wonder if you are actually the false parent. Then again, I wasn’t the one sleeping around like a rabid feline in heat. If I wanted to share you with that many men, I would’ve just gone to a Diddy party. And now, just as he has finally been exposed for his scandalous past, so shall you.” Mr. Black said, suddenly injecting her in the neck with a sedative.

           Emily’s mother passed out immediately, and her head draped down into her chest.

“Your neck will be quite stiff in the morning. Shame.” Mr. Black said, picking up Emily and carrying her up to her bedroom.

           They would all need some rest for a joyous Christmas Eve. Except for the gimp downstairs. Mr. Black had injected him with adrenaline instead, ensuring he would not sleep a wink for days to come. It wouldn’t be long before the poor bastard’s mind would turn on himself, unable to distinguish fantasy from reality. How tragic.