Funny thing, life is. So substantial, yet it can slip away with slightest provocation. Almost like family, especially in the case of divorce. And, in both cases, the change is irreparable. It’s something to think about, the similarity. What does it mean when the splintering of a family can be compared to death? Nothing good, it would seem. Nothing good.

I remember the day with a crystal clear clarity of sorts. The screaming, my mother’s sobbing, my father slamming the door for the final time as he left in a rage. I couldn’t stop remembering it. The sounds and images followed me everywhere, unshakable. I had to do something to get back at him, for ruining my life. My mother wouldn’t understand it yet, but I was protecting her.

His new house was nice. Nicer than anything we had. Made me wonder where the money had come from, but only briefly. I had a job to do. I left the lights off to conceal my position, letting the moonlight guide my way. The silvery light reflected itself in the cold piece of metal in my hand, making it gleam like a heavenly apparition. This comforted me. I pressed on.

Steps. Exactly 13 to the top. Plush white carpeting covered the whole second floor. It masked my creeping tread. The door to his bedroom was open, inviting me in like a welcome mat. I peered in. He was snoring loudly, entangled in his silken sheets, his face calmed with the peaceful blankness that favors the blissfully sleeping. It sickened me that he could look that innocent after all he had done to our family, to me. Cold, calculating rage enveloped my mind and I lost any reservations I had ever had about my mission. I leaned over his bed, the knife held aloft by my steady hand. I shook him awake with my free hand- I wanted to see the fear in his eyes, the guilt; I wanted to see him di.e.

I looked down at the now slack body, the mouth still open in shock. His blood trailed down onto the carpet, staining the white a brilliant red. I examined my work, feeling like something was missing. I wiped my knife with his sheets, looked at my reflection in the blade, and carefully, methodically, car.ved the word “PIG” into his forehead. Now all the world would know. Once again, I wiped my blade on the blanket, this time covering the handle as well, ridding it of my incriminating fingerprints. I wrapped his fingers around the now clean weapon, and stepped back. I felt complete again. The voices of that day had left my mind, replaced by his screams.

I slid back into the basement bathroom through the window I had left cracked open. No one ever came down here, not since he had left. I gripped the edges of the sink and stared into the mirror, carefully rearranging myself into a look of shock, disbelief and innocence. That would do. Who would ever suspect the poor son, anyway? What a tragedy, they would all say. Their son must be on the brink from the murder. He must be going crazy. No, I thought. I’m fine now. Death doesn’t make you crazy.
Divorce does.