Seven

It's definitely the latter.
I just don't want to accept that Papa got to her. That he found out about Agnes. Nothing got past him.
I mean, I'm the only one Mama trusted enough to share her illicit affair with. She swore me to secrecy and three years after she left. I still honor the trust she had in me. It can't be a coincidence that Agnes also disappeared around the same night Mama left. But some times I think, if only briefly, that perhaps Papa found out about the affair and murdered Mama in cold blood and somehow Agnes saw this and he threatened her and she immigrated to an isolated country and now she's just some lonely old lady in a retirement neighbourhood with thousand cats.
She hated cats. But then again, she hated dogs.
She even hated kids.
Clara and I were no exception. I didn't like her either but I hate Papa more. He's such a cruel man.
Some nights, when the world has died, I allow myself to reflect, to feed my preoccupation with violence and emotional suffering.. I often imagine how good it'd feel to kill my Father.
Wendy was amazing, she understood how I feel about Papa. She was wife material. Uh, not really. See what I just did there? I lied. Don't know why. Can't help myself. I lie about everything. My age. My feelings (especially my feelings). I lie about Clara if it'll make me look good. Everything.
I hate to admit that I'm not innately good. I've never been accused of being a nice person. Instead I have this uncanny meanness floating through my veins. Pop one and a bitter, heavy current will spill to the floor and wrap you in its darkness. Sometimes I'm convinced I'm incapable of love but then I look at Clara and envision killing her and I get a funny feeling in my stomach. It's as though it's tied into a billion knots. Is this love? I have no idea.
Clara is currently walking towards me and as usual, she's limping. She likes walking barefoot so often gets cut by glass bottles left by rebellious teenagers at the woods behind our house where Clara spends most of her time. (She says). She flops in the wide space between me and the wall. She fills it. All of it. Didn't realise she was so fat.
Sometimes I think I do have a physical violent streak.
Okay, I know I do. If I were to be in an alley somewhere in Pinetown, where I know that lots of homeless people harbour the streets then I'd kill someone. I've always wanted to know how that feels. To watch the life of a man slip and know I'm the reason behind it.
As I think this I feel a zing of delight shock my body. To the people watching me I'm sure I resemble a child with a new toy.
Being a good human being does not necessarily come easy for me, and I blame my father. For me to do the right thing I have to do some deep soul searching. Strangers should be thankful for Clara. She is the light in my dark tunnel. Her love keeps me from exploring my selfishness.
I look up. Zoe is staring at me some ten paces away, tears brew in her blue eyes. I wish I were capable of love. I wish I could provide what she needs, security. But I can't. I'm simply not wired that way. I stand and she blinks, more than necessary. She's trying to hide her tears. I fantasize the most about killing her. I often picture it happening in a graveyard, in the dead of the night, with fog surrounding us. My hands fit with precise perfection on her throat. When I'm on top of her, familiarising myself with her body, I usually wrap my hands around her. Tighter than I should. Tighter than other men generally do. Just thinking about it wakes my beast. I need her. But I realise that if she's going to trust me, then I should give her some sort of hope to hold on to. I'll let her into my 'world' without actually revealing too much. Just enough to have her in my claws because I can see her giving up. I think her intuition is warning her against me. But she's here. Crying over a guy that would never love her. A guy that has never loved anyone. A guy who wants to kill instead if kiss. Why don't women ever listen to their intuition?
Stupid! That's what they all are.
I don my jacket, tell Clara that I will be back soon and walk across her to where Zoe is sitting. When she notices my approach, she bends into the skirt of her dress. To get rid of the tears, I presume.
I kiss her neck and I feel her shudder and take a sharp intake of breath. This is going so much better than I thought. I still don't understand how she could react to my touch in this way. How she could love me (this is clear in the things she's willing to do for me) when I've offered nothing more than stolen moments.
"Didn't your mother tell you that you should never sneak up on people?" She looks up at me with a smile that brightens the eyes. Her lips purse and I lean down to place mine to hers. She says sneak up in an innocent way. Like she really didn't see me coming over. This is meant to be cute or flirty. Falls flat on either.
"I missed you," I lie without breaking eye contact. Her smile stretches further.
I want to roll my eyes. She's naive.
"I don't believe that," she says and ducks her head to hide her blush.
Reassurances. All women want that when deep down they know the truth but I can see her cling to this lie. If it makes her days worthwhile, if it makes her sleep better then I'll do that for her. See? I can be nice.
Zoe grins at me. I smile back. Nobody is as happy to see me as Zoe always is. It is a wonderful thing to witness. A meal to my ego. I fend for it in more ways than I care to mention.
"What are you doing out here all alone?" I asked her, combing my fingers through her silky hair. I tug. She winces. My bulge throbs. She's sitting a little further away from the group now.
Zoe has low tolerance for pain. While I fuck... rather hard, she prefers candlelight sex. She doesn't like it when I smack her butt but in hopes that this will make me love her, she indulges my sexual norms. I know a lot about my... Fuck buddy. I know things a boyfriend is suppose to know. I know how she likes her coffee; black with two tablespoons of sugar. She doesn't drink tea. I know she wants to marry young, if possible, the last year of highschool. I know she secretly hates me. A small part of her. No matter how potent. I wasn't there for her when she needed my support. If she hadn't lost her baby then we wouldn't still be seeing each other. I refuse to parent a brat with a girl as light and optimistic as Zoe. I'm surprised she's still seeing me. She is everything I'm not. She's superstitious, too.