“We’re not savages, my little Sora,” says Daddy as he guides my hand which held a knife over the whimpering man’s face, drawing random lines across his white skin. “We don’t kill just for the heck of it, and we don’t kill messily.”
The man is tied to a chair, and Daddy and I are situated far enough away that his blood pours nowhere near our shoes. My hands are wrapped in lace gloves, steadily cutting along the path my Daddy has laid out for me.
He pulled back, leaving my hand to continue its bloody doodling over Mr. Chan, who only last week made me laugh with a horrible joke about a duck and a chicken. I don’t even remember why I found it funny anymore, just that it felt good to laugh for once, and have someone who actually wanted to make me laugh. Most of the guards my father assigns to me are stoic and huge and practically mute, and they never talked to me. They just send me off to school, hidden in whichever bush they found suitable, and guard me all throughout the day and into the night.
Mr. Chan had been different. He had actually come sent me off directly at the gate and not in some corner of the school premises for fear of being noticed. He made sure I had my lunchbox and pens and papers all inside my bag, and he fetched me from school at three like all the other Dads. He even accompanied me to an ice cream shop and allowed me to eat three—three!—full scoops of chocolate mint ice cream. Every week, for the entire three months he worked as my guard and pseudo-Dad, he took me out to the park, or to the museum, and one time to the planetarium where he taught me which constellation was which.
I always get them all mixed up.
And he joked with me, like I’ve seen all fathers do, and gave me piggyback rides around the park.
Last week, I asked Mr. Chan to buy me a pet and he had said yes.
And now I’m in our house’s basement, carving lines and circles and squares on his face, while my real Dad watches.
Blood spurts from the artery I cut on the inside of his neck, and I close my eyes with a gasp as they land on my face. I hear Daddy click his tongue, and then I’m pulled back from the torrent. A fragrant handkerchief is glided gently on my face, wiping the blood clean from my cheeks.
“You should have been careful,” Daddy scolds lightly. “Did I not tell you to avoid getting dirty? Did you already forget my lesson?”
I shake my head so fast it makes me dizzy. “No, Daddy,” I reply, my voice a tad shaky. “I haven’t forgotten, I swear. I know where all the important veins and arteries and capillaries are. I know where to cut. It was an accident.” With each word my tone softens, my mind recalling that lesson my father made me learn last year.
Seventy men, fifteen women, ten children and two babies. I counted them even as I cut them open with my personal knife, searching for their veins and arteries and capillaries while my father lectures behind me, telling me which ones to go for and which ones to avoid.
The jugular should be avoided because it will likely squirt into your face or some other place, and every drop of blood is evidence that can throw us into prison. Prison is bad. We can’t go to prison.
“I’m sorry,” I add, looking down from the disapproving stare Daddy gives me.
He hums, and I can hear the disappointment from the small sound. “You know we cannot tolerate accidents, tesoro mia. Accidents are mistakes, and mistakes are pathways to death. We do not want that, do we?” He waits for me to nod before adding, “Tell me the rules, little Sora.”
I clench my fists as Mr. Chan’s life slowly bleeds out of the cut I gave him, so painfully slowly. “Stay strong, stay clean, stay together.” Those are the rules. We’re the hunters, never the hunted. We keep our hands clean—no mistake is tolerated. We care for no one but family—because blood is the root of all things. And blood should always stick together.
“You’ve been very naughty the past few months, my little Sora,” he says lightly and I freeze on my toes.
I gulp, but the sound quickly morphs into a choke as my father grabs my little neck and squeezes. His dark eyes flash in anger and his mouth twists in displeasure, making him look more like a fearsome monster and less like a doting father.
“You think I will not know?” he puts pressure on my throat and I give a whine out of fear. “You have been acting really cozy with this new toy I gave you, my little Sora. Outings and ice creams? And I see your play invitation has been given to him as well, hmm?”
I struggle to breathe as he strengthens his hold. Dark spots fill my vision. Even so, he keeps talking. “Have you forgotten who is your real father, child? Have you forgotten who you are?”
I try to speak, to say no, I’ve never forgotten. There’s no way I can ever forget. But his hand tightens on my throat and all I can produce are pitiful squeaks as my breath is cut off. Daddy’s mouth widens in a garish smile, so wide I can see his gums. When he speaks, his breath falls on my face, which smells like the mint he often pops in his mouth throughout the day.
“Well, let me remind you then.”
I am thrown down the floor, gasping, as Daddy stands and looms above me like an angry god about to punish his people.
Tears fill my eyes and drop to the white, bloodstained tile. I’m in pain, and I can barely breathe, but my mind tells me the worst is yet to come.
Like always.
I hear the sound of footsteps stomping away, and my vision blanks for a second in panic. I push myself up on my knees, looking up at the figure of my Daddy in his three-piece suit without a hint of blood or wrinkle going for the door.
“We don’t kill messily.” And Daddy never, ever does.
My heart pounds so hard I hear it in my ears. “D-dad! Daddy, d-don’t leave me here!”
He turns, and I meet his dark eyes, so much like my own, looking down at me without any of the affection he usually has reserved for me. “Have fun with your fake Daddy, little girl. I’ll come get you in three days. Your new Mommy is coming then, and I need you on your best behavior.” He crosses to the other side, and with a mocking grin, slams the door shut, leaving me in total darkness in the company of a corpse.
I scream.
