But I Need You (This Love Hurts 2)

As our mother did our hair at the kitchen sink and all the games of hide-and-seek that drove my father crazy. All the good times do little to settle the sadness that lingers in my chest. It’s a weight that won’t move and maybe that’s because back then, there was so much hope. So much innocence.

All I can think is that little girl I used to be would be horrified by who I’ve become.

My eyes burn with the sting of exhaustion and something else. I grab my purse, leaving my luggage and coat where they are even though I’m certain it’s bitter cold out there. It’s always ten degrees colder up here than it is down in Pennsylvania.

There’s an ominous feeling that greets me as I approach. After the large front door creaks open and shuts just as easily, there’s only silence in the large old house. I can’t remember a single time when it was this dark and quiet. “Hello?” I call out and expect my mother to shout down from upstairs. Maybe she’s still getting ready.

The lights being out in the foyer doesn’t help that strange feeling, so I flick them on as I call out for my mother, “Mom?”

A torn sob echoes from somewhere to the left, beyond the kitchen. I think it came from the living room.

“Mom?” I repeat, crying out as dread spreads through me and I pick up my pace. My keys rattle in my hands and my purse nearly slips as I get to the threshold.

My mother’s there, on her knees on the floor and she doesn’t stop crying as I approach. It’s like she can’t hear me.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” The moment the question is asked, my heart stops. There’s blood. So much blood. But it’s not touching her. I follow the pool and find it leads to my father. My purse drops along with my keys as my knees hit the stone floor hard.

My hands shake and I make my way toward him, inching myself along with my hands in the air as if to reach for him but they’re held back.

There’s so much blood and the smear of it in front of me, a smear from his leg being dragged through it is dried. With my right hand trembling, I place my palm on his back.

My mother’s sobs still haven’t stopped. My name is incoherent in her last cry as she rocks back and forth.

Breathe. He doesn’t.

Tears flow freely down my face, stinging my eyes.

“Dad,” I call out and then with the back of my hand, I press my fingers to his cheek. The second that skin touches skin, I pull back and push myself away.

His skin is cold as ice.

Thud, thud, my heart pounds and attempts to race, but it’s like it’s caught in free fall. It can’t speed up or slow down, it simply is what it is.

“Mom … what happened?” My question’s strength is nonexistent. It’s faint and full of the same fear that courses through my body.

Until I see the glint of metal next to my mother. A gun.

“You shot him?” I don’t know how I’m even able to question her. It’s not real. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t kill him. She can’t kill anyone. It’s my mother.

Before I can apologize, my mom speaks.

“I had to, baby girl,” my mother cries, tears streaming down her face, dragging the remains of mascara with it. With a sniff and a harsh wipe across her face, my mother’s dark brown gaze stares down at my father’s body. He lies on his stomach, blood soaking through his shirt and creating a halo of darkness around his face. It bleeds into his cheek, staining his skin.

There’s no movement of his chest. No breathing, no blinking, no signs of life at all and vomit rises up my throat as my trembling fingers cover my mouth.

My entire body shakes, glancing between my dead father and my mother who just admitted she murdered him.

“I had to, Delilah …” she whispers. “I had to.”

“No,” I say, denying it, shaking my head and crawling backward until my back hits the cabinets.

“You don’t understand. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Mom, no,” I whisper. The realization grips my shoulders the way I wish I could grip my mother and shake her. Shake her and demand she tell me the truth because this can’t be real. She didn’t do it.

With her bottom lip quivering and my mother’s expression worn and full of pain, she looks me in the eye and tells me, “I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

Evidence convicts. Confessions can lead to convictions too, but as I drive exactly fifty-five miles per hour with my mother laying down in the back seat of my car, careful not to go over the speed limit, I refuse to let her confess to anything to anyone.