Telltale

• Caitlin Yang, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2020

Crimson blood angrily splattered over the peeling wallpapers. Dark, gleaming, like my father's eyes across the room. I would’ve asked how and why, but I knew. Everyday, this so-called family was toeing a dangerous line. It was only a matter of time before it snapped, before someone snapped.
I couldn't quite remember how it broke out, it could have been the ticking of the clock, or my family's relentless needs and wants, or just a single wrongly timed word. It didn’t matter anymore, what was done had been done.
Overturned furniture, broken glass, bits and pieces were drowning in blood thick as syrup. The chaos that erupted merely seconds ago felt surreal, but the carnage was proof as good as any. Unbreakable tension, frozen air, the movement of my breathing felt like a betrayal to this utter stillness.
My eyes drifted towards my mother, she was like a puppet without its strings, arms and legs jutting out in all sorts of wrong angles. My sister wasn’t too well either, shards of broken plates and sharpened steak knives were sticking out of her torso. A voodoo doll, that was what she looked like. But no blackmagic could’ve caused this, no, the most dangerous curse of all was the poisoned thoughts of men, and we were full of them.
There was a pause, like arrows waiting on the bow. It was as quiet as the silence before the storm.
But oh, do not be fooled.
People too often foolishly overlook the moment when the hunter became the hunted.
My father, whose figure luminated by the sickly yellow glow of incandescent lights towered over me, waiting for the last string to snap. But the times had changed.
A click pierced through the night as a bullet locked into place.
A butcher's knife was gripped tightly in his fist, his lips pursed and trembling. He had never done anything in favour of me, of anyone but himself. But I was still thankful, of course. Thankful that he taught me how to use a gun. He wouldn't dare break my stare now, he was finally aware of who the prey really was. The sharp coppery tang of blood reminded me of what I needed to finish.
So with a wicked grin, I raised his revolver.
With a sigh, I pressed send to my editor. Who chased relentlessly after my words that came out only ever so often. I pinched the bridge of my nose, never so glad that this was the last deadline of the year. The night was quiet, the owls hooted their lonely, saddened syllables, the moon hung white like a dead man's bones.
I opened the window to allow a cool breeze to clear my head. I looked over out of habit, to the beautiful flower bed that I tended everyday. Fresh lavenders and tulips bloomed bright in contrast to the rich, obsidian soil.
They were truly beautiful, like the same night I planted them.
On top of my family's corpses.