The bar mirror’s reflection shows his mouth opening, tongue swelling. Eyes bulging. Liquid warmth coats my jeans as his bladder releases and the sharpness of ammonia fills the air.
“… m… your…”
Spittle dots his lips. Petechiae spots his face and eyelids.
My arms strain, keeping the pressure, and I don’t know how long it takes before a tremor runs through his body, then… stillness. For another five minutes, I maintain the force, counting each second aloud.
When I release the cord, his head lolls sideways, eyes staring at nothing.
I exhale, a long slow breath, as if expelling eighteen years of rage from my lungs. The cord drops from my fingers, landing in a coil beside his head like a sleeping viper.
I’ve imagined this moment countless times—his death, my freedom—yet the reality feels hollow, mechanical. I should be halfway across the city, near Ophelia, sorting out a plan where we’re reconciled before she slips away from me forever.
My father is still keeping me from where I need to be. And it’s with that cold anger I stand back and survey the scene.
It’s been half an hour since I arrived home. Dad’s driver could already be on his way back, having dropped off his teenage cargo. I walk back upstairs, not rushing, not risking a fall. His phone’s on the kitchen counter and I’m nearly touching it when I snap my arm back.
Fingerprints.
There are kitchen gloves under the sink, large, yellow, stinking of rubber.
I don them and take his phone downstairs, opening it with his thumb.
He dismissed the driver for the evening, after the drop off, along with a reminder about his Vietnam flight tomorrow.
I have time.
I scan through the other messages he’s sent this afternoon, checking everything, unsure how long a dead body will still unlock a device.
Nothing else warrants attention.
I squat beside the body, methodically inspecting his neck. Any bruising left by my thumbs is lost under those left by the cord ligature, no nail crescents showing, and there’s nothing I can do about the cord marks. They’ll just have to blend into any scenario.
The basement is a museum of his depravity. I select items with clinical detachment. His phone again, dropped into his robe pocket. A tablet. The bottle of vodka from upstairs. The two used glasses.
His body is surprisingly heavy as I position him in a chair, securing the cord around his neck again. This time it’s arranged in noose with symmetrical knots, the length looped through iron ceiling hooks. The tablet goes on his lap, immediately slipping to smash on the floor when I step back.
When someone bothers to check, they’ll find him like this. A man whose secret desires killed him, not a monster slain by his son.
The girl who left earlier will provide context if the police ever track her down. I doubt they will; he probably has contacts there working towards the exact opposite goal.
But either way, there must be traces of dozens—maybe hundreds—of others. Dad never opened this room for the cleaners.
It’ll muddy the waters, and the more doubts the better.
Once everything looks the way it should, I bump up the thermostat and leave, latching the door so it locks behind me. After a short internal tussle, I decide against wiping the handle, figuring that would raise far more suspicions.
Upstairs, I shower and change, then patch my head wound. It’s barely visible beneath my hairline. My clothes go into the washer.
My reflection appears calm, composed. Like I’ve just returned home from school rather than committed a cold-blooded murder.
If he’s found today, tomorrow, it won’t fool anyone. Trained investigators aren’t that stupid.
Bribeable, maybe.
But every day that passes before then will make it harder. A week and I’ll have a chance.
A week while he rots down there in the dark.
