My bouquet was a mix of flowers I thought he might have loved if he had ever cared for such things—white lilies, chrysanthemums and dark red carnations.
It was six in the morning. The sky was grey and dull above the cemetery as though the heavens already knew how the day would unfold. In the distance stood an old, gaunt groundskeeper clutching a rake in oversized clothes. I waved but he watched me suspiciously, his narrowed eyes never leaving my face.
I walked reverently between the graves until I got to my father's headstone and gently placed the flowers on it.
Today marked the fifth anniversary of his death though none of my brothers or my mother cared to remember anymore. For them, forgetting was survival but for me, it was impossible.
I had relived the night of his murder every day for the past five years. The hitman showed me the confirmation and I identified his body at the morgue. When the hitman died last year, I knew something was wrong.
Thunder rumbled somewhere in the clouds.
If there had ever been an award of the world's best father, he wouldn't be among the recipients. Still his influence shaped us into the people we became. He was tough and raised four boys like his private army, and we had scars to show for it.
I hid mine beneath tattoos of mama and kintsugi symbol inked across my shoulders and back. I was cracked in many places yet stronger for it.
I couldn't say the same for my brothers. One lived in an asylum, another worked with Doctors Without Borders in Zimbabwe as though distance could save him and the last was trapped in catatonia at John Hopkins Jospital. Mama lived alone at the countryside, volunteering at a children's hospital twice a week. Perhaps that was her penance for the years of silence and pretending not to see the monster in father.
I sighed and cracked my neck, gazing up for a moment. “You tried but couldn't break me,” I murmured into the cold air as flashes of memory branded my mind. “I finally cut the cord.”
A sudden coldness wrapped around me and I shivered.
“Why would I break you?” A familiar deep, hoarse voice spoke behind me. A voice I'd not heard in five years. “You are the best of me.”
I turned slowly, my mind refusing to acknowledge what my instinct already knew. He had not aged a single day. His dark eyes were piercing and calculating as though seeking my secrets. He was deceptively smart and planned ten moves ahead and trusted no one. I learned and perfected his moves.
“You are alive after all,” I said quietly. It was a statement that drew a smirk from him.
“Did you just figure that out?” He asked, hands in pockets as he walked towards me. “We could build an empire together, son.”
I shook my head. “Not with you, father.” His eyes widened for a second before he hid his reaction beneath arrogance.
In a blink, I raised my Glock and pulled the trigger just as he did the same.
I didn't move fast enough and a searing pain shot through my shoulder just as he gasped and staggered backwards. The bullet lodged in his forehead. His mouth parted in disbelief before his body collapsed, his head hitting the edge of a headstone with a crack.
I went on a knee and pressed my handkerchief to the wound.
This time I made sure he stayed dead.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "cut the cord".
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