My father was a sadist.

He enjoyed tormenting me, belittling.

He liked to get a reaction.

He liked to see me cry.

So when I drove that knife into his chest, I didn’t shed a single tear.

But he did.

He wept and begged and carried on, much in the same way I used to at the hands of his abuse.

It was strange to see him that way.

Weak.

Vulnerable.

And in that moment, I finally connected to him. I understood his agony, his fear. I felt that same fear in my bones, I’d carried it my entire life.

It was hard to finish him off, as I finally saw some of myself in him.

There was a small part of me that wanted to spare him, call it even. Now that he understood my pain he could become the father I’d always wanted: gentle, kind, proud.

But when I looked into his eyes, I knew that wasn’t possible. Those are still the same eyes that narrowed in anger when I failed, then widened in sick glee when he realized he got to punish me.

And punish me he did.

My body is a minefield of scars.

Burns.

Bruises.

But none quite so vicious as the words he planted into my head, sprouting into hateful thoughts of their own.

I’d remained quiet during these times, knowing he wanted a reaction.

I did the same now, simply watching as he bled.

I didn’t feel the relief or joy or anger I’d anticipated prior to this moment. In fact, I didn’t feel anything at all.

Frozen and numb, my whole life and now.

His begging turned into expletives, and before his blood could suffocate the cruelty out of him, he let out a gurgled, “Fucking bitch.”

I smiled sympathetically, watching him squirm and twitch and cough.

“I forgive you,” I whispered graciously, allowing him to leave this life with some form of closure.

If looks could kill I’d be on the floor with him.

So I just watched him grow weaker, grow still. Watched as his eyes glazed over and his face relaxed. I couldn’t help but notice how peaceful he looked, something he’d never experienced in life.

I’m a monster, I know. Taking a life for any reason is deplorable, sickening.

But I’m okay with that. I have monster in my blood, burrowed into my genes.

That’s why, when the police picked me up a mile down the road, I didn’t fight.

I didn’t argue when the detective said he had DNA evidence that could put me away forever.

I didn’t beg or plead or cry like my father would’ve wanted.

I simply told them the truth.

That my father was a monster, and so am I.

I wouldn’t have killed him if there wasn’t traces of his sickness crawling in my mind like fleas, sucking the innocence out of me every day I’m alive.

They didn’t ask me many more questions after that, I’m not sure why.

Maybe it was the blood still dripping from my sleeves.

Maybe it was the smell of decay that enveloped me.

Or maybe it was the look in my eyes, the one that only killers have.

The one that not even my father possessed.

No, this look was not inherited, it was man-made. It was made of my own pain and suffering, made of my broken body and mind. It was made of cruelty all of my own.

Maybe that made me worse than him, I don’t know. Maybe I’m exactly what he wanted me to be.

I shed no tears during the trial, though my lawyer advised otherwise.

I couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t pretend to weep for a man that would’ve enjoyed it.

When they asked if I felt remorse, I couldn’t even lie.

I killed my father, I’d told them, looking at every eye in the room. I killed my father and the world is a safer place now. And when you put me away, it’ll be safer than ever before.

The jury didn’t take long.

Afterwards, I got to meet my new home.

It was cozier and more inviting than the room I’d lived in for nearly seventeen years.

Sure it was a cell, but so is a normal bedroom when a beast is on the other side.

It was only then that I let the tears fall, the ones I’d held onto for nearly a decade. Stepping into that cell felt like the first steps of the rest of my life.

Finally. I’m free.