My Father's Murder

By Shikha Bheda

The walk upstairs was a slow, painful one. I had no idea what I was doing. I clutched Mr. Cuddles so tight, his eyes almost popped out. The stairs underneath me creaked sending a shiver up my spine. I passed my mother’s bedroom on the way. The door was ajar. Mr. Cuddles looked up at me with sad brown eyes, warning me to not go in. I didn’t listen. I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

I woke up with a start in my own bed covered in sweat. I started to wipe off the perspiration on my upper lip when I noticed that I couldn’t. My right hand was tied to the bed post with a rope. I tried to untie myself in vain. I cursed. My heart was beating faster than a hummingbird’s. I should never have stepped into that room. I looked around to survey my room. The same grey paint was splashed across the walls that I had picked out. My father had urged me to choose other more lively colors but I was adamant. “Grey helps me think better”, I had said.

My father. I loved that man more than anybody else. His kind smile was the last thing I used to see before I fell asleep every day. The stories he used to read to me used to make laugh so hard until tears sprang in my eyes.

But that was before my mother killed him.

The door burst open to the room. “How are you feeling, sweetie?” my mother smiled at me. She tried to run her fingers through my hair but I flicked my head away. No. I couldn’t let her suspect I knew.

“I’m …. I’m okay” I managed to stutter. “What happened?”

She pursed her lips. “You came up to my room and suddenly fell unconscious.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I decided not to press her. I knew somewhere deep down in her core she loved me but I also knew she loved herself more. She would have no problem getting me out of the way if she felt threatened.

I pointed to my cuffed hands. “Oh sorry, let me just get that for you.” She untied me. I didn’t ask her why I was tied up because I knew there would be just another lame excuse following my inquiry. Just like the excuse I was given when I had asked why her hands were bloody the night my father died in the alleyway. Why was she so flustered when I had begun asking her questions? Why had she pretended to fall in love with him only if she wanted him dead in the end?

I wish I had done something that night. My father deserved justice. Alas, I was a coward. I was afraid and frightened of my own shadow, of being alone, of everything.

I pulled out the newspaper cutting from under my bed after she had left.

“Viktor Mikaelson, local lawyer, dead in alleyway. Found by two other residents. Mugging gone wrong. Suspects are in custody.”

Well, the killer was still free. At that moment all I felt was rage. At my mom. At myself. At the injustice I was allowing to persist. My head started hurting. Another one of my migraines had set in. My vision doubled and all I could see was red.

The next thing I knew, I was in an alleyway. My throat was parched. I looked around in confusion. My whereabouts were completely unknown. My mother. She must have struck again.

I walked in the deserted alley for about half an hour and finally found a bus stop. There was still no one in sight. Picking up a random newspaper on the seat I decided to wait for the next bus. I would ask for the way to my town. But I wouldn’t be heading home. No. The police station was going to be my next stop. I was turning her in. I didn’t care what they thought. My life was in danger. She was volatile. I couldn’t live like this.

Suddenly, a picture in the newspaper caught my eye. It was my apartment.

“Vanya Mikaelson, mother to a 17 year old daughter. Stabbed brutally in the heart repeatedly with signs of strangulation. Suspect is on the run. Suspect is deemed mentally unstable suffering from split personality disorder as recorded in Vanya’s personal diary.”

No. My mother was dead. This didn’t make sense. Who could have ….?

Then I read the next line.

“Suspect is Grace Mikaelson, Vanya’s daughter. Please report to authorities if found. Suspect may also be responsible for her father’s death last week.”

The only thought that crossed my mind was that I did not want to go in foster care. And then I blacked out and she took over.

By Shikha Bheda