The Lining Is Silver
004: The Story of My Old Man
I stared at the obituary tacked up in the upper, left-hand corner of my home office’s corkboard. The newspaper articles were stashed in a folder in the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk. It was a photo of my father, showing him at the age of thirty-six. It was one of the last, recent photos ever taken of him. His sister did a marvelous job at selling him off as the boy-next-door everyone presumed him to be. Survived by his ex-wife and daughter. The only thing besides my birth certificate, in print, that states his tie to me.
He’s smiling, his eyes locked on to whoever’s taking the picture of him—it’s cruel how such an innocent, charming, plain face can hide the truth of what lay behind. He used to smile when I was little too. Smile with every hit, kick, punch, slap—sometimes for good measure he’d start laughing. But of course, it was all done out of love when he was so intoxicated he didn’t know if he was standing on the floor or the ceiling. I smiled too—when I watched the last of the darkness fade from his eyes, and as he spluttered for that last breath. The thing I can’t comprehend to this day though, he smiled once he realized why I paid him a visit that day—it never left his face, even as he was dying.
The thing about me though, the thing that to this day eludes the police who follow my string of murders, they cannot understand how I have yet to be caught. How I can outsmart them—it’s so very simple. I choose the lowest of the lows, the ones no one would miss—the ones who have fanatics harassing them every so often. It’s those fanatics, the rasher ones, the ones who aren’t afraid to act out towards those vile, disgusting, wastes of space known to human species that I can get away with what I do. One is always too happy to take claim for my handiwork, and I’m not bothered.
Of course, when asked for the details of how these people are killed, not a single fanatic can answer truthfully and they’re once more let out to the community. I would stop being a “serial killer,” that is the term labeled to me. I’ve killed more than three people, I suffered an unhappy childhood, but unlike those Bundy’s, Berkowitz’s, Gacy’s, Dahmer’s, Toole’s, DeSalvo’s, unlike them, I’m a woman. I don’t fit the little mold that’s cast for the female serial killer. I am no “black widow.”
I don’t mind that they cannot even decipher that the killer of my father, of all these other pedophiles, child molesters, rapists—the killer of all the monsters I’ve killed, that I am a woman. It would throw everything all the boys and girls in uniform have ever been taught right out the window. My phone going off broke my concentration.
“Amelia, you didn’t forget did you? It’s his birthday today.”
“Of course not! How could, he’s my best friend, I’ll be there in an hour, and don’t worry, he still doesn’t have a clue. Lord knows if he did he wouldn’t bother to show up.”
“Ain’t that the truth! I’ll be sure everyone knows to be extra loud when yelling surprise just for him.”
“He’ll certainly love you for that!”
We laughed as we ended our call. I had to get myself together, after all, it was my best friend’s birthday and we were throwing him a surprise birthday party.
He’s smiling, his eyes locked on to whoever’s taking the picture of him—it’s cruel how such an innocent, charming, plain face can hide the truth of what lay behind. He used to smile when I was little too. Smile with every hit, kick, punch, slap—sometimes for good measure he’d start laughing. But of course, it was all done out of love when he was so intoxicated he didn’t know if he was standing on the floor or the ceiling. I smiled too—when I watched the last of the darkness fade from his eyes, and as he spluttered for that last breath. The thing I can’t comprehend to this day though, he smiled once he realized why I paid him a visit that day—it never left his face, even as he was dying.
The thing about me though, the thing that to this day eludes the police who follow my string of murders, they cannot understand how I have yet to be caught. How I can outsmart them—it’s so very simple. I choose the lowest of the lows, the ones no one would miss—the ones who have fanatics harassing them every so often. It’s those fanatics, the rasher ones, the ones who aren’t afraid to act out towards those vile, disgusting, wastes of space known to human species that I can get away with what I do. One is always too happy to take claim for my handiwork, and I’m not bothered.
Of course, when asked for the details of how these people are killed, not a single fanatic can answer truthfully and they’re once more let out to the community. I would stop being a “serial killer,” that is the term labeled to me. I’ve killed more than three people, I suffered an unhappy childhood, but unlike those Bundy’s, Berkowitz’s, Gacy’s, Dahmer’s, Toole’s, DeSalvo’s, unlike them, I’m a woman. I don’t fit the little mold that’s cast for the female serial killer. I am no “black widow.”
I don’t mind that they cannot even decipher that the killer of my father, of all these other pedophiles, child molesters, rapists—the killer of all the monsters I’ve killed, that I am a woman. It would throw everything all the boys and girls in uniform have ever been taught right out the window. My phone going off broke my concentration.
“Amelia, you didn’t forget did you? It’s his birthday today.”
“Of course not! How could, he’s my best friend, I’ll be there in an hour, and don’t worry, he still doesn’t have a clue. Lord knows if he did he wouldn’t bother to show up.”
“Ain’t that the truth! I’ll be sure everyone knows to be extra loud when yelling surprise just for him.”
“He’ll certainly love you for that!”
We laughed as we ended our call. I had to get myself together, after all, it was my best friend’s birthday and we were throwing him a surprise birthday party.
♠ ♠ ♠
Apologies for the long wait!