No more playing at soldiers

I knew when the ambulance drove away. No lights, no siren, no urgency. If there had been any chance at all…

I watched, craning my neck as it turned the corner, to catch a last glimpse. Just in case. Then I closed my eyes and listened for the siren to wail. A minute or two passed. Nothing.

I released the breath I was unaware I’d held. I felt light headed and my heart pounded, but whether from relief or the lack of oxygen I couldn’t tell.

“He’s dead isn’t he?” I asked the police officer beside me.

She didn’t reply. I grabbed her sleeve with my bloodstained hand and pulled her to face me. Dislodging the grey blanket she’d wrapped around me in the process.

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

The confirmation shattered the numbness I’d wrapped around myself closer than the blanket could ever be.

Freed at last, conflicting emotions wracked me. The horror of what I’d done warred with the relief that I’d managed it.

Tears streamed in torrents down my cheeks and violent tremors ran through me. I pulled blanket closer around my shoulders and hugged myself. Rocking slightly and sobbing. I couldn’t hold everything I felt inside any longer. The outburst lasted a full ten minutes before I could bring myself under control.

I’d expected to feel his hard hands raining blows in response to my emotional display. I automatically checked to see where Marie was. To make sure she wasn’t between us or near enough to attract his attention.

Then I realised he wouldn’t hurt either of us ever again. I began to cry again.

Marie sat in the back of another police car, safe. I felt a moment of regret that I had to leave her, but I’d done my best for my baby sister. He would never do to her what he’d done to me. Nobody had believed me, and they wouldn’t have believed or protected her either.

He’d presented such a different face to the rest of the world. He was a solid citizen, a social worker. Raising his two daughters all by himself since his wife had vanished.

Marie had become a woman yesterday but she was still only eleven. She’d made the mistake of telling him. I couldn’t mistake the expression on his face. I’d seen it above me all too often.

He didn’t like the mess of the blood, but the next week he’d have… Well that wasn’t a problem now. She’d have to finish her childhood in care but at least she’d keep her innocence a little longer.

My action was premeditated. I’d hidden the small kitchen knife under the mat at the end of my bed. It was Saturday. I’d known he’d come for me. He always did and we always began with me, on my knees, on that mat.

He’d come into my room just before midnight, reeling and reeking of liquor. I worried the drink would get the best of him and he’d be unable to perform. Then he’d have beaten me, as if it was my fault, and my plan would have failed.

I wrapped myself in the calm, numbness I’d created to survive his attentions. It smothered the panic and fear, allowing me to think and to do what I knew I had to.

He didn’t bother stripping, just dropped his jeans around his ankles. For the first time ever I was pleased to see his erection. Drunk and hobbled, this was the best opportunity I’d get.
I knelt in front of him. He grabbed my hair with both hands and pulled me towards it.

As his little soldier stood to full attention, he closed his eyes. I pulled the knife from beneath the mat and cut the hateful thing off. He would never touch Marie with it.

The blood poured over my face and chest, hot and metallic tasting in my mouth. It was better than when he pissed or came over me.

He screamed and screamed, grabbing at himself. I’d been afraid of his retaliation, but there was none. The blood loss quickly made him weak and dizzy.

He fell. I stepped over him and out onto the landing, locking the door behind me and leaning against it, trapping the monster inside.

If he’d of broken through I’d have stabbed him again.

Marie came out of her room. After I’d assured her that the blood wasn’t mine this time, she’d sat on the floor beside me quietly.

I waited until the whimpers stopped. Then we went into the bathroom. I rubbed at the blood with a towel but didn’t bother washing.

We went downstairs, watched a last movie together and said our goodbyes. When I was sure enough time had passed that no hospital could revive him, I finally called the police.

It had sounded surreal when I said it.

“I’m Susie Summers of 18, Arcadia Avenue. I’m pretty sure I’ve killed my father.”