Residual shivers cling to her bones, her limbs twitching every so often while she aims her focus toward the screen, carefully watching my every move. Even through the camera, a blueish tint still lingers in her skin, though it’s not quite as prominent as before. I keep my promise, ensuring the camera stays below her throat, showing her tits, stomach, and the bare V between her legs.
Truthfully, I don’t need to show her face. If I were to share this video with anyone and say it’s her, they would take my word for it without question.
“You going to write insults all over me?” she snips, settling a fiery glare on me. “I can only imagine how fucking creative they’ll be.”
“I only want to write the truth,” I whisper.
She frowns, but I’m already searching for the perfect spot to start. Trading between watching the screen and watching my hand, I press the tip of the Sharpie right beneath her breast and ink the first truth onto her skin.
03/18/11.
She inhales sharply when I’m finished, recognizing the date immediately.
“The day Lionel took my mother,” I say, “and the last day I saw her alive before he scattered her remains in a fucking junkyard like trash.”
A high-pitched sound of distress emits from her throat, but I hardly hear it beneath the darkness sinking into the divots of my brain. Before those memories can resurface, I move on to the next truth, carefully writing it over her sternum, an inch lower than the first date.
02/26/09.
“Stop it,” she hisses.
“Do you remember her name?” I ask. She doesn’t answer. “Your father wasn’t charged with her murder, of course, but we both know he did it. Her name is Macy Brown, and she went missing on this date. The police discovered her body months later, strewn across a middle school’s soccer field, her head placed on the center mark like it was a fucking ball.”
She whines again, and her stomach quivers, but I hardly notice as I move a little farther down her stomach, over the left side of her ribs.
06/29/09.
“What about her name?”
“Dread, s-stop,” she begs, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Wrong,” I say. “It’s Jolene Roberts. They didn’t find the first of her remains until a year after she went missing on this date. He scattered them across three lakes, and it took law enforcement a couple of years before they pieced all of them together. Most of them were found by families out on their boats during the summer.”
I move the tip to the right of her belly button.
07/02/10.
Then, directly below it, I write:08/08/10.
As I finish, she goes to drop her arms, likely to stop me.
“Don’t,” I bark, my glare snapping up to her.
She pauses, her face twisted in agony.
But why? Because I’m accusing her daddy of atrocious crimes? Or because, deep down, she knows he’s guilty and doesn’t want to face it?
“P-please,” she whispers, visibly fighting back her pathetic tears.
The sight of them only deepens the darkness clouding my vision, growing denser and harder to see through.
“You said you’d be a good girl,” I remind her, my voice devoid of emotion.
Her lips part, but I return my attention to the camera before she responds.
“Savannah Little. The youngest of those discovered.” I flick a glanceat her. “But not the youngest of his suspected victims. Your father raped and murdered her when she was only seventeen. Her remains were discovered in an abandoned factory only a week after she went missing. A homeless man found them—Robert Fawks. It fucked him up so badly, darling.” My voice cracks, and it takes several seconds before I regain control over my tumultuous emotions. “On the second date, authorities discovered his body hanging above the exact spot he found Savannah’s.”
Her head shakes, as if to physically thrash my voice out of her head, but it’s no use. I move the marker below her belly button, sparing the camera a glance to ensure I’m still within view before writing the next truth.
