Daddy's Little Killer

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

 

Bile burned in the back of my throat. That was the nicest sensation pumping through my body. It was the axe buried in the front of my skull that was the real killer. I struggled to move, to sit up if I was lying down or lie down if sitting. 

The world must've been revolting, because my muscles don't disobey when a command is ordered. Maybe it was the thousand pound crushing weight on top of me. 

Where the hell am I? What was I doing? Have I been in a car accident? Maybe that's what's going on. I'm on my way home from Rick's funeral and flip the car. I'm being slowly crushed to death. How's that for irony? 

A finger twitched. Pain shot up my arm. No problem. No pain, no gain. Right? A minuscule movement was progress at least. I kept moving the left index finger. This is good. I'm left hand dominant. The searing pain in my head isn't a stroke that's going to leave me paralyzed on my good side.

Finally, my hand found its mobility. I stepped my fingers gently over the surface of whatever supported my body. 

Not the car. That would be leather, smooth and cool, tiny lines like palm prints to tickle the ridges of my fingertips. This was rougher. Er, being the operative identifier. Not wool, but in the wool family, perhaps. Llama? Alpaca? Some exotic Peruvian blend. 

Wait a minute. Why would I be in Peru, crushed in a car with wool blend upholstery? I was at Rick's funeral. That was only a few minutes ago, wasn't it?

Yes. Yes, I'm positive. David staring me down, sternly. Hurt. Disappointed. Well screw him. Who cares what he thinks of me? The emotions flooded my consciousness, just as they had when I felt them only a short time ago. 

I'm pulling out my badge, his eyes begging me not to do anything hasty. I slam it into his open palm, without a care that it might hurt him. I hurt. Why shouldn't he share the pain? What makes him so goddamned...?

Wait. Am I wearing my wool coat? It's raining. I forgot my umbrella. How's that for irony? The angels are crying, and I'm unprepared. I can hear Mother clicking her tongue against her teeth.

You mustn't forget the little things, Helen. You'll catch your death.

Mmm. Death. I hurt so much. Surely death is lurking at the horizon of my miserable existence. Death. Old friend. Come for me. Take this burden off my chest and release me to the great nothingness.

My wrist bones grind together. No, that's not right. I'm not old and arthritic yet, am I? Is this old age? Dementia? Am I trapped in an eternal torturous loop of the worst week of my life? Justice is not without a vicious sense of humor perhaps.

"Helen?"

"Dad?"

My tongue is a hybrid of sandpaper and drying Jell-O. I can hear the pathetic attempt to form words. If only I could open my eyes, he could see me talking to him. Oh Daddy, I miss you so very much. Why did you have to go away? You'd know what to do right now. You'd save me from my mistakes. You are the only one who can fix everything, wipe the slate of my mistaken existence clean and tell me the words I ache to hear.

Everything will work out, Sprout. Daddy will fix it. Don't cry.

The pain is so severe, I must be crying. Yes. Either it's warm blood trickling over my temple or... no, it's not thick like blood. Is blood thick? Have I ever bled before?

My wrist moves again, the pain dull all the way to my elbow, like a good whack to the funny bone. Ha-ha. Funny bone, aptly nicknamed after the humerus. Most people misspell that bone. Humerus. Humorous. Very different. Misery. Happiness.