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I land heavily, grunt from the impact, my body immediately telling me that the exertion was too much. I feel a grinding down deep, in some part of my abdomen I cannot name. Double over, force it down, wait for my limbs to allow me to stand once more. Anyone could see me kneeling here, paralysed, an intruder in suburbia, though there was a time that my presence was routine, even welcomed. Now I hold my breath and watch the curtains of the second-floor windows for any sign of movement.
None comes, and at last I am able to stand. Walk, though I know I don’t have long. I will not be able to leap the fence again. Getting this far has left me wounded, though I have strength enough to do what I have to.
I approach the front door, my footfalls leaving deep marks in the lawn. Produce the key I had secreted away, swallowed down when I was taken away, regurgitated now. It only takes a moment to retrieve it from my insides, and even wet, it clicks into place. The false father, I note bitterly, did not bother to change the locks.
The inside of my home is just as I left it; quiet, orderly, domestic. Dark wood floors and clean white walls. There are no sounds to be heard, no lights turned on, though I am certain I am not alone. I make a quick internal check of the time; early evening, my daughter’s treatment time.
All the house’s power will have been diverted to her machines, I realize. To cycle her blood, to stretch her limbs.
Straining into the apparent silence, the rhythmic hum of their work can be heard upstairs. The man who thinks he is her father must be continuing her care, though this only makes me angrier.
There is no love in him, no compassion. He is keeping her alive to play with her, to prolong her torture. Soon baby, soon, I will make him go away. I am only a few metres from your room now.
As I move deeper into the house, toward the stairs, I cast my gaze over the mantelpiece. See that every photo of me has been replaced, supplanted by his. My little girl, frozen in time, forced to sit and grimace beside him. A mockery. My arm sweeps across the surface, sends wood and glass crashing to the floor. There is no response from upstairs, but he must know now that I am here. Good, let him be afraid.
I grip the bannister for support, take measured steps. The pain in my stomach has worsened, making it difficult to stand straight, but my outburst has refocused me. Solidified what strength I have left in the places that are important. My legs, my arms, my hands.
At the top of the stairs, I am met by another obstacle. A security gate, iron bars with a digital lock fastened to the wall. An electric eye swivels to regard me dispassionately, fixes me with a gaze that I spent years learning to hate. The same kind used on my cell. The same emotionless jailor that I had been staring at only this morning.
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The false father must have had it installed. Not content that only I be locked up, he turned my home into a prison. Confined my daughter to the second floor, trapped for even those few hours in which she can leave her bed.
My anger knows no words. I grip the bars and bend, pull the gate towards me, my feet braced against the floor. The metal twists in my hands, the lock screams in electronic urgency, a frantic beeping as I rip it from the wall. With a howl, I break its housing. Splinter the wood and break the eye, leave the gate hanging by its hinges.
Too much. Far too much. I stagger, drop to one knee on the staircase. Hug myself as I try to suppress waves of sensation, coursing through me, furious. Bandaged wounds indignant at being opened up again. Something hot and sticky drips from beneath the fabric, droplets that gleam black against the floor.
I crawl the rest of the way up, round the corner on all fours. Into the passage and past my
bedroom, toward hers, at the very end. Dig my fingers into the carpet as I go, dragging my knees to the thrumming rhythm of the life support machines. So close now. The knowledge gives me strength, allows me to hoist my body a little, lift my gaze. To see the false father, look up just as he brings a hammer down on my head.
I do not feel the impact. Not really. Though it registers, it is lost amid the constant wash of signals issuing from my stomach. A dull thud and I am looking at the floor. A muffled knock at the base of my neck, and I can feel the carpet against my cheek. He strikes me, again and again, and my vision goes dark. Then returns. On and off, black and white, switching with the rhythm of his blows.
I keep looking at the carpet. See its pink and fluffy tassels, the reason that my daughter chose it. I see where spots of dirt cling to the fibres, left by the traipsing of a man’s shoes. I see those shoes close to my face, pulling back to kick me. I reach for them.
My hands find purchase, wrap around his ankle. Now he is beneath me, and my hands are on his face. Fingers grip, scratch at the soft spots, find his eyes. He struggles, clutches at my arms, trying to push them away. He doesn’t quite manage.
A wet pop, a splash of red, someone screaming. His arm swinging up and a hammer blow to the side of my head. The world blinks out for a moment. When it returns, I see him crawling, one hand clutching the side of his face, the other turning the handle to my daughter’s room. The door is open, and I drag myself toward her.
I see her now, propped up in bed, irrigated with tubes. Up her nose, in her arms, coiling around her neck. Though she is mid-treatment, her eyes are wide, staring at us as we crawl into the room. False father and true, trailing the watercolours of our love behind us. She does not speak,
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just looks at me in disbelief. She must be in pain. He must be hurting her, mishandling the treatment. Only I know how to help her.
Yes baby, it’s me. I’m here now. Everything is okay. I tell her this as I approach, standing slowly, strengthened just by the sight of her. My every limb protests at the movement, but I won’t stop. She is right there, waving at me, mouthing something that I cannot quite make out.
Pointing. I look to the side, see the usurper, standing by the bedside table. He raises an arm, brandishes what he has retrieved from there, points a remote at me and presses the switch that will end my life.
I feel the click, sense its echoes tingling through my nerve endings, sending a command to seize up my insides. A cruel device, buried deep. A built-in failsafe to shut me down. I feel my body tense, but I do not die. He presses again, harder this time, aiming straight at my stomach. Again, that awful shuddering, but still I live.
I watch as he begins to understand, notices the wires dangling from my midriff. As he sees the wound for what it is, realizes what I gouged out to get here. I watch as he begins to panic, grabs the phone beside my daughter’s bed, hands shaking as he tries to dial.
I hear myself laugh, a sound I did not know I could make. A single hoarse bark to punctuate my lurch forward. And then my fingers are against his throat, and his one eye is staring at me as he tries to speak. No words escape my grip, but I understand him still. He doesn’t believe it, didn’t think I could do it. But I would do anything for my child; a real father would know that.
I am with her now, one arm around her. She cannot speak either, but still I understand her, know what she needs. The man lying on the floor nearby, the man who thought he was her father, thought he knew, but only I do. My daughter’s eyes seem to confirm this, fixed on his body, on the kill switch at his fingers. She cannot believe he would do such a thing, try to take me away from her. I pet her hair, smiling, crooning. It’s okay now baby, it’s all okay, and slowly, her eyes meet mine. Seated as I am on the side of the bed, I draw her closer to me. She makes a sound, a feeble protest, but again I hush her. Stroke her cheek, begin to detach her from the machines all around.
Tubes pop free and monitors flicker. Liquids drip on the bedroom tiles and air escapes with a gradual hiss. All these things that he thought she needed, all these machines. She needs none of them. Just me. Soon the connections are broken, and at last she is free. Carefully, I pull her onto my lap and let her head rest against my shoulder, the circuits below my skin thrumming in response, giving off a gentle heat, designed to soothe.
She does not move but I can hear her, crying softly. There, there sweetheart, it’s alright. I’m here now. I hug her a bit tighter, press her face against me. Rub her back, rock to and fro as I speak.
In the distance, I can hear the sound of approaching sirens. She must be so scared, is still crying, so I hug her a little tighter. And then a little more.
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It was hopeless. Short of burning the bed and stripping the walls, there would be no getting rid of them. I contemplated selling the house, locking up and handing over the chaos to someone else. But who would want it? I briefly considered leaving the gas on and lighting a match.
Instead, I decided to attend a writing course at the local library.
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