SECRETS OF A FATHER
It wasn't as hard to go through my father's things as I thought it would be. Sitting here sorting through boxes of his memories, my memories. I straightened my back; abandoning the trunk at my feet and arching backwards trying to release the tension in my back and shoulders from sitting here stooped over box after box for the last few hours. I knew I should take a break, there was no rush to finish the job. He'd left the house and all it's contents to me; his only son and last living relative.
But here among his most precious things, packed neatly and safely away to preserve them, I felt his presence. The memories here were of a simpler time, when I was just a boy discovering all that life had to offer. There was no faint smell of antiseptic and hospital food here. I could forget the pain of the last few months. The pain of watching him slowly slipping away from me.
I had always been close to my father. He'd been there for me through everything, teaching me the important things I needed to know about life. It had just been the two of us for as long as I could remember. My Mom had left us when I was just 7 years old, "Son, please remember that this isn't your fault. Your mother left because of me, because I was unable to give her the little girl she wanted." I remember that conversation at the tender age of 7 and the others we'd had as I got older and was more able to understand the complicated relationships adults had. I never really missed my mother. My father did everything for me and I never felt deprived of anything.
I sighed and bent back to the trunk and continued to take out clothing. It was all women's clothing which I thought was odd. My Father seemed so okay with my Mother's abrupt departure; almost happy even, that I would have never expected him to have saved any of her things as mementos. I put them in the box for goodwill. He may have thought they were worth saving, but I had no use for memories of a mother that I never really knew.
I was almost to the bottom of the trunk now when I noticed some unmarked video tapes sealed in plastic to keep the dust away and a sturdy looking lock box with the lock still securely attached. Beings that the top was filled with my mother's clothing I assumed the video tapes included her, probably videos of those early years when my mother was satisfied with her life. Memories that my father would rather forget, but meant to much to get rid of so he'd packed them safely away. The lock box peeked my curiosity, what could possibly have been such a painful reminder of my mother that he felt the need to lock it away so tightly?
I felt my stomach rumble with hunger and I realized it must be hours past lunch time. I lifted the video tapes and lock box out and placed them in a small box to take them downstairs with me. Maybe I would see what was on the video tapes while I ate lunch and then see if I could get this box open.
I carefully descended the attic ladder and continued down the stairs all the while trying to imagine what I might find on the tapes. I placed the box on the fading laminate countertop of my Father’s kitchen and went to the cupboard to retrieve a can of soup and a pan. I started the soup simmering on the stove and pouring a glass of water retrieving the box and plopping it on the couch in the living room.
I hesitated when I reached my hand into the box to retrieve the first video; my hands were trembling. Must be from lack of food and sitting in the same position for so long I shrugged. Grabbing the tape I ripped the plastic from it in one fluid motion and shoved it into the VCR.
It started immediately and was all fuzz for a good few minutes before an image flashed on the screen.
I furrowed my brow, confused. There was no sound and the image was not of my mother; as I’d expected, but another women stooped over her garden tending to the beautiful flowers. Her back was to the camera and you could only catch a glimpse of her face when she turned to retrieve another flower for planting. But her face was not familiar, her skin much darker then my mother’s had ever been and her hair a contrasting Blond. The camera stood very still and unmoving from the women for several minutes before the screen went black.
Odd, I thought. I stood to retrieve the tape and try the next when another image suddenly flashed to life on the screen. There was still no sound but it was obvious this was the same women, only now she was at a park reading a book on a bench near the lake. Every so often she would look up and it was like she was looking right into the camera without really knowing it was there. Just like the first image this lasted for a few minutes before going black. I slowly sat back down on the edge of the fading recliner and waited for the next image I was sure would come. This time the same women was unloading groceries into her house. I grabbed the remote and fast forwarded. Image after image of this woman flashed across the screen. This mysterious women Jogging in the park, greeting guests to a party at her home, at the library, watering her yard, on and on it went. When the tape stopped with a pop at the end and started to rewind I jumped.
What in the world was this. It was like whoever had that camera had been stalking that women and since these tapes were in my Father’s possession I took the next logical leap. My Father had been a stalker; but that was impossible I argued with myself. When would he have the time, when he wasn’t working we were together, always. There must be some other explanation.
Still shaking I removed the tape from the VCR and replaced it with another from the box. Hoping to find something logical and fearing that I would find more evidence that my father was not who I had thought he was. This tape was the same, as was the rest, 25 in all. Each tape a different women, each tape showing a eerily silent video copy of their daily lives. Some had even included views into the women’s rooms as they’d undressed in the privacy of their own home.
I sunk to the couch with my heads in my hands. Why did I have to know this, why couldn’t I just let my father die with all the happy memories in my head, why did I have to know that I had lived with a disgusting pervert who preyed on the private moments of countless women’s lives. Suddenly my head shot up, “the lock box,” I whispered to myself in horror. What could possibly be in there. It had to be worse then this, why else would he put it under lock and key. I rose quickly and grabbed the cold steel box and sprinted to the kitchen, ripping open drawers searching for something to break the lock. Slamming the last drawer closed in frustration I sprinted out the back door and into the garage searching for a crow bar.
I snatched it and rushed back into the kitchen and hastily began prying the lid off. Finally the latch broke with a resounding metal clang. I closed my eyes, not sure if I could even look into the box that I had just worked so hard to open. Did I really want to know what my Father was hiding in here. My image of the perfect father was already shattered, so how could it get any worse. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes reaching slowly into the box. Newspaper clippings.
I sighed in relief, all that was in the box was newspaper clippings. I gingerly lifted out the first clipping. It was faded yellow from time but still legible. DISAPPEARANCE OF LOCAL CHOIR TEACHER A MYSTERY. I scanned the article before moving on to the next one. Case after case of missing women each article alluding to a serial killer amongst the small town. As I continued to read I began shaking so uncontrollably that I could no longer hold the papers, they slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. I slumped against the cabinet, sliding to the ground reaching for the last paper I had held.
I pulled it up to my face and stared into her eyes. The eyes of the first women on the tape. I knew it now, without a doubt, my Father had stalked these women and they had disappeared. What had he done to them. Should I go to the police, my Father was dead, no justice could be done. Surely I could avoid the ridicule I would receive; the shunning from the people of this small town. There was no need for my life to be ruined by association with this monster who was my Father.
I slowly gathered the clippings from the floor being sure I had them all. I stood slowly, with determination now solid in my mind. This all had to be destroyed, immediately. I left the clippings on the counter while I ran to retrieve the video tapes from the living room, depositing them in the kitchen before sprinting up the steps and the ladder to the attic; clutching the box of women’s clothes I was now sure belonged to those 25 women from the videos and articles. My Father’s mementos from his sick and twisted hobby. I shoved the videos and clippings into the box with the clothes and reached for the metal lockbox. I started to shove it in as well when I noticed a manila envelope stuck to the bottom of the box.
I ignored it and shoved the metal box deeper into the folds of clothing, before sighing and drawing it back out. Maybe there was a slim chance that what was in the envelope would explain all this, maybe my father wasn’t a killer, maybe there was a logical explanation for what seemed like very real evidence to my father’s evil doings.
I slowly opened the envelope and dumped the contents on the countertop. Regaling at the contents. Staring up at me were the eyes of the women; beaten and battered, blood staining their shocked faces, eyes staring wildly at what would have been their last sight; my father bent over their bleeding and broken bodies. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t; because, laying on the very top of the pile was the one picture I recognized, a picture of my mother. Her stunning eyes staring back at me with shock and horror frozen on her dead face.
Suddenly I was unable to breath I clutched at my chest with one hand as my body suddenly slumped over, the floor quickly rising to meet the side of my face. My body made a resounding thud as it hit the floor, my head grazing the side of the counter before cracking on the dull linoleum floor. I could see my mother’s face scared, confused, broken before it all went black.
WOW, I couldn't stop reading to find out if the father did kill his mother. I usually don't like horror, but wanted to say keep up the good work.
A Touch of Peace http://tanyamerced.com
Rambling thoughts
- Parksey27
on Sep. 16, 2009 at 3:20 PM