Recommended Song Pairing: Janie's Got A Gun - Aerosmith

Photo Credit: www.freedigitalphotos.net per Simon Howden

Photo Credit: www.freedigitalphotos.net per Simon Howden

When it was over and everything was said and done, killing her father was easier than Rebekkah expected. She stared at him there – crumpled on the floor with blood congealing on the carpet. She’d told her mother that nothing good ever came of white carpets but the woman hadn't listened. She eyed the splats of blood on the white walls and sighed. Nothing good came of white walls either. She gazed at the walls a bit longer and giggled. The giggle turned into a full belly laugh and she laughed until her body shook. The walls looked like they’d come down with a bout of chicken pox.

“That’s funny isn’t it father?” she asked nudging the body with her Louboutins before she fetched the large bottles of bleach and Pinesol from the kitchen. The walls would be good after a bit of scrubbing. Her father, not so much.

She intended to scrub the death right of the living room.

Not that there had ever been much living done in that room anyway. There had been a lot of anger. There had been a lot of curses and slaps. There had been a lot of tears as her mother drank herself to death on the very floor her father lay on. Then, there had been the screams of some slut or the other her father brought home for a quick fuck. She’d been eight the first time she walked into the living room to find their maid, Carlotta, spread-eagled on the couch with her father inside her.

It occurred to her half a decade later that her father could’ve well afforded to take his indiscretions, as her mother called them, elsewhere. Then, it took her another couple of years to realize that these episodes were always designed for her mother’s benefit. To break her. And, they did. By then her mother had given up on being a mother. The only thing she absolutely gave herself to was her vodka.

Rebekkah raised the bottle of bleach. She kept it hovering over the carpet for several minutes before she decided it wasn’t worth it. She was tired of covering up the dysfunction that was her family. Her mother’s death three years earlier was chalked up to a ‘medical mishap’ which Rebekkah supposed it was if you counted taking a bottle of Xanax medical and  with a litre of vodka a mishap. But she’d gone along with it. She hadn’t dared breathed the word ‘suicide’ to anyone. She wouldn’t dare. No one defied Bernard Richmond. And it was possible no one had until his daughter put four bullets into him.

She smiled as she let herself out the house. Yes, when it came down to it – killing her father had been as easy as a flick of her finger. She peeled off her surgical gloves, pushed her shades on and slid into her BMW. She wondered how long her father would lie there before anyone found him? The police would have their work cut out for them to narrow down the list of people who wanted him dead. They would get to her eventually but Rebekkah couldn’t be bothered. She’d be in Bali by then.

Killing her father was damned easy.

Rebekkah wondered why she hadn’t had the courage to do it sooner.


© Rilzy Adams, 2013