Eighteen

Daniel Addas




Stuffed with dread, I lead Clara up the stairs with the intention of abandoning her in the lounge while I go 'investigate'. I take a left, enter the hallway and then up again into another flight of stairs. Her screams of agony haunt me all the way to the third floor. As I enter, rather slowly, into the bedroom, my eyes scan the body, or what is left of it. I'm not yet sure exactly what I'm searching for, but it's better than sitting hopelessly, watching my sister fall apart. I can't help her in anyway and that thought alone makes my stomach churn, and bile attacks my throat. My head spins.
.
I should call the police. This is a murder scene, but I look at his body one last time: His eyes have been detached from their sockets . Limbs are torn asunder and strewn about his bed; his feet, legs, thighs have been shaved.
This strikes me as odd.
Only one person would care to do that.
Clara.
But she couldn't have, could she? I can't ignore the gusty evidence. She had at least an hour with him before I came home. Anything could've happened. My father has always been hairy, to him it proved his masculinity, I suppose. He wouldn't just shave for no real reason.
His stomach is slashed open. He's been disemboweled, the viscera moves up and down but I realise this is only my imagination playing tricks on me. The man is dead. Obviously. I hold my breath. I can't fathom how anyone could do this, the anger it'd require to pull it off. The patience. The precision. I feel his pulse, which is ridiculous, it is gone and a fierce pain stabs through me. Why can't my suspicions of Clara fade? They're getting stronger.
It is grotesque.
I fold myself beside him and touch his arms, something I haven't done since I was a little boy. Touch my father. It feels nice. He's as cold as ice, as cold as death itself. He even looks like death. His skin has changed from a healthy black to a sallow grey. It is clammy and his shredded clothes are plastered down with blood. There isn't too much so I have enough sense to assume that the death didn't take place here. Papa's body must've been transported here.
There's something wrong, unfamiliar with his feet. I lean closer. There's no mistaking it now. I am looking at my sister's masterful work.
I don't blame her.
With an estate of over twenty million, anyone would resort to murder.
Papa never took out his toe ring. Clara used to say if she'd find Papa drunk then she'd get rid of the ring. Papa tried but he'd grown into it. It wouldn't move. The person that wanted the ring gone went as far as to cut it off his finger.
Papa was wearing his ring the last time I saw him.
This morning.
The room is dancing with shadows, just like always, because Papa claimed the light was too much for his sensitive eyes. He wore contacts to better his vision most of the time. My heart sinks and I bury my face in my hands and scream. Clara isn't much of a liar, she isn't even that smart. It's only a matter of time until the cops figure out what she's done. I can't hide the body. People would have questions and besides, if the head turns up, I'd have more to answer for.
The world around me begins to swirl and I struggle to my feet. No matter how hard I try to convince myself that my sister had nothing to do with this, I can't seem to believe the lie. I may be a seasoned liar but I don't appreciate being lied to and lying to myself is no exception. Papa trusted her and if he somehow took off his contacts, he'd have been easy prey. Even if he wanted to fight her off, he couldn't. He couldn't see a damn thing without them.
Oh, Clara, what have you done?
But is my twin even capable of some thing like this?
The fact that I don't know the answer to that is very disturbing.
I can't think of anyone with more reasons to want Papa dead. Someone who stands to gain more than her. I won't be receiving a single dime of that money. I won't even get the cottage Papa bought a couple of months ago. Or the isolated house near the farms. No further than ten miles from here.
I walk to the window, contemplating and look out into the blank nights. It's pitch black. I rest my forehead against the glass and retrieve my phone from my back pocket. Papa didn't deserve to go out like some dog with rabies. In this moment I could give anything to be able to talk to him, to apologise for all those lies I told about him, the lies that made us so estranged, to hear his judgemental voice and know its directed at me. I guess reality has finally sank in.
My father is gone.
Clara is responsible.
But how long had she been planning this? Did someone help her? Was Papa's estate the reason she killed him?
With my decision made there's no reason to hold off any longer. I wake up my phone and dial 10111. The trrii-trrii sound of the phone sounds once. It's calming in a odd way.
I put the phone on loud speaker.
"Port Shepstone emergency services," the dispatcher says. It is a man. Bored. The fucker. "What's your emergency?"
"My name's Daniel Gary Addas. "There's a man lying next to me and I think he's dead," I say, I realise my voice is too cold for someone who's just lost a father. Action. I start crying. I've watched too much reality crime shows to know that the police will listen to this in their quest for justice and if I don't twist this in my favour then I might just jump to the suspect list, the last thing I need. "It's my father. He's. He's. I think... dead."
"How do you know he's dead?" Asks the nasa-voiced operator.
Fuckin limpdick.
"When I came in to take his clothes to the laundry room, I found pieces of his body. I know it's him. Papa had a scar on his right knee. Got it from basketball practice before we were born. It's a nasty one. The shape of a circle."
"Can you feel his neck for me? Tell me if there's a pulse."
"There's no need for me to do that. He has no head. So I know he's dead."
Cuss words fill the other line. I know they aren't directed at me but perhaps at the situation. "Okay, how old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Is there someone else in the house with you?"
"My twin sister. Yes."
"What's your location?"
Between fake sobs, I manage to tell him my address, and about the details of how I found my father. He asks if there's anymore people in danger, I want to say I might be in danger too. Clara is unpredictable. I'd know, after all I'm her...
"A deputy is on the way, son," I catch the dispatcher's soothing voice, as if teen aged girls killing their fathers in cold blood is an everyday normal routine. But for him, it probably is.
"Thank you," I say, my voice cracks not because of overwhelming emotions, but because I didn't time my pitch. Not complaining. The timing is perfect, though. This is a world class performance.