The door shut.
“Fuck you, murderer!”
I locked it with the keys.
“Fuck you and that cunt!”
Outside, the night breeze hit my face. Cold and fresh.
I threw the keys deep into the bushes. They vanished somewhere in the dark with a jingle.
For a moment, I just stood there, breathing.
Strangely, it felt like something bad had finally ended. Like I had finally cut loose a horrible piece of the past.
As I rushed back to my car, Myers’ screams faded about a quarter mile down the path.
The night was silent now.
When I got to my car, I pulled off the hospital booties first, then the gloves, then the surgical cap, and shoved everything inside a plastic bag I grabbed from my car. Including the Florida sweater. I put Myers’ phone in a different plastic bag, so I could later wipe it clean and throw it away in a public trash can.
Everything now had to happen fast. Time was not on my side.
The engine roared to life, and I drove back toward the hospital.
My thoughts ran wild as I drove.
But not with guilt.
I probably was supposed to feel horrible about Myers, but I didn’t. The hate was still there. Solid. Heavy. If he had just come forward and confessed from the beginning, maybe things would’ve been different. But attacking my grandmother and almost killing her, no matter what story he fed me in that hut, wasn’t something a man who deserved to live would do.
And parts of me doubted Myers’ story.
A man who raped women could murder just as easily. And lie, of course. That much was obvious. So maybe my mom was innocent. She could’ve still been the victim who fled that night. And the trauma broke her. Stole her voice forever.
Another thought forced itself into my head.
My father.
God, I hated him.
If he had been stronger. Less of a liar. Less of a drunk. Less of a cheater. Less of everything. Then maybe my mom wouldn’t have worried so much about leaving us behind with him.
I tried to picture it. A scared mom sitting in a sterile doctor’s office, hearing she was dying. The cold air. The ticking clock. The wordcancerstabbing her like a knife. Then thinking of her children. Knowing she’d leave them in the hands of a man who would destroy them.
That kind of fear probably hurt more than the disease.
So, what choice did she have with a father like mine?
Thinking about it now, I saw it all more clearly.
My dad had spun an abusive web around her. Not with fists. Not with bruises anyone could see. But with passive-aggressive hate. Insults disguised as jokes. Cheating. Lying. Drinking. Wearing her down until there was nothing left.
He would apologize afterward. Promise the moon. Swear it would never happen again. For a while, there’d be peace. Ahoneymoon phase. Then the drinking. The lies. The cheating. Again.
A cycle of hell my mother was trapped in.
I hated him. I really did.
