Page 52

Exodus 20:12, carved into Sunday school walls and whispered from pulpits like it’s salvation.

But no one talks about Ephesians 6:4.

“Fathers, do not provoke your children to wrath…”

What wrath do they think lives inside the children they never protected?

What kind of honor survives the betrayal of blood?

Did he honor God’s word when he forced himself into my room at night?

When he held me down with a hand that reeked of whiskey and sweat?

When he let his friends, his brothers in Christ, take turns like I was some communion passed between sinners?

If he ever prayed, it was with a mouth full of rot and lies.

If God listened, then He listened and did nothing.

I used to scream into my pillow, begging that same God to stop him. To burn the house down around us. To split the earth and swallow him whole. But the walls stood. The floors creaked. And I bled in silence while angels looked the other way.

Now, I wipe the drool from his chin and bathe the parts of him that once broke me.

Now, I dress the body that housed a monster.

Justice isn’t divine. It’s something you dig out with your own hands.

And I will.

Not here, not yet. But somewhere.

I lean down until my lips are close to his ear. Close enough that I can smell the antiseptic that now lives on his skin, and beneath it, the rot that no amount of soap will ever wash away.

“Be not deceived,” I whisper. “God is not mocked. Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

Luckily, there are others. Ones who aren’t being watched so closely. The thought blooms in my mind, slow and curling, dark and sweet.

I force myself to finish my tasks. Fresh clothes next, lifting his limp arms, his useless legs, pulling on sweatpants, an old flannel. I wonder if he feels it, the way I handle him. If somewhere, deep inside that ruined brain, he knows that every touch is laced with things neither of us says. Sharp things.

Breakfast is next. Liquid food, spooned past lips that barely move, dribbling down his chin. I don’t wipe it away immediately. I let it sit there, thick and wet, pooling in the deep lines of his face. A small rebellion. Petty. But satisfying.

My body moves on autopilot, each motion mechanical, detached. But my mind is a storm, unraveling, clawing at fragments that refuse to fit together. There are too many missing pieces, too many jagged edges where the truth should be. It’s too early to understand, too soon to see the full shape of whatever is unfolding around me.

Questions churn in my head, thick and relentless, but there’s no one to answer them. No one I can trust. The men who beg beneath me, their bodies trembling as my blade carves through flesh, would say anything. Whisper any lie they think I want to hear, just to keep breathing a little longer. But fear makes liars of them all.

And I don’t have time for lies.

I tug my sweater tighter as I wheel my father into the living room, his chair squeaking with every step. The sound grates on my nerves, high and thin like a blade dragged over glass. His head lolls to the side, lips parted, breath rasping shallowly through his nose. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, always watching, always waiting, are dull now, unfocused. A shell of a man, locked in his own body, a prison that should have come years earlier.

Dust particles swirl in the weak morning sunlight that filters through the uncovered windows. I’ve left the TV on for him, an old, boxy relic that’s more static than picture. The antenna struggles to hold a signal, but the local news is on.

His chair faces the screen, and I wonder if he’s even paying attention. His head tilts slightly to one side, eyes half-lidded, but there’s a sharpness to his stillness. He’s not entirely gone, not yet.

I grab my mug from the kitchen counter and lean against the doorway, sipping the lukewarm coffee as I watch the screen. The voices of the anchors cut through the static.

“Breaking news this morning: the search continues for two men reported missing in nearby towns. Authorities are asking for any information on their whereabouts. The men, identified as Nathan Kerr and Dennis Harper, were last seen several weeks ago. These are the first cases of missing persons as of late. Virgile Wolfe out of Hurricane, is also on the missing person’s report.”

The mug slips.