I couldn't find Charlie anywhere in the house, at least at first.
That should have been my first clue that something was very wrong.
I found him in the pit our parents had dug. Mother stood, staring blankly into space, but Father ... Father.
Charlie's skin was blackened, slightly, he'd been a little bit charred by the fire he'd started. Father was in pieces on the ground, his corpse tender from the flames.
"What are you doing?!"
Charlie smiled at me. "They're already gone, you said it yourself. They're dead, they just don't know it yet. Why shouldn't we - why shouldn't I - benefit?"
I knew then what I had to do. Casey would be heartbroken, but it was necessary.
Turning, I walked away - for a moment.
As Charlie was chewing on one of Father's fingers - the finger that held his wedding ring - I cracked his head with a hammer. I don't know if that killed him - but he didn't scream, when I pushed him into the crackling fire. His body curled, blackened, twisted - but it was necessary, I reminded myself. It was necessary.
I collected Father's ring. I'd give it to a pretty girl, maybe. I don't know.
We settled into a routine, Casey and I. He worked out, alone and resentful, while I hammered out story after story. I typed until my fingertips turned hard and callused - but the thief woman never did return.
My work ensured that.
No comments:
Post a Comment