The sun had begun to rise and the birds that lived in the eves were softly singing when Cole heard father fiddling with the doorknob. Mother's body had cooled hours ago, her body drained and pale, still lying tied to the bed. The splatters of blood had long since dried on his face and the wall, oxygen turning the bright red to a muddy brown. Her mouth gaped open in perpetual shock, eyes began to glaze and the skin of her neck was flayed open, showing her true soul. Dark and mangled, ruined and corrupted. This was the most honest Cole had ever seen her, he stared for long hours at the masterpiece that he had made of Mother. She was more in death than she had ever been in life.
Cole was calmly sitting on his couch facing the door, holding the Glock loosely in his hand, when Father finally made it through the entrance. Still stumbling and unfocused. Cole stood slowly, blocking Father's view as the old, splintered, wooden door shut with a final bang. The boy released a quick breath that he had been holding as his father entered, everything had to be perfect. This was his big moment.
"Father." Cole raised the Glock level with his face, the gun shaking with excitement. "Did you have a good night out?"
"What is this bullshit, boy? Where's your mother? Where'd you get that gun from, eh?" He stared at Cole's quivering hand, he thought it was nervousness or fear. He was wrong. "You wouldn't shoot your own Father." He took a few confident steps forward before he was able to spot Mother. "Jesus Christ! What the fuck have you done?" He yelled, disbelief and shock echoing from his words.
"I killed her. Obviously." Cole said deadpan, then he coughed like he was holding back a laugh. "Well actually according to the police report you killed her. In a tragic murder–suicide. Isn't that just so sad." He pouted at Father and walked slowly closer, pointing the gun further up as he did, keeping it level with his face. The man was frozen in shock, staring at his dead wife as the boy moved ever closer, until the gun was under his chin, aiming at the sky.
"Bye bye, Daddy." Then Cole pulled the trigger.
Blood, bone and brains splashed the roof before falling to earth, like rain from the heavens. Chunks fell from the sky and splattered wetly on the tile floor, hitting Father in the face before his body had a chance to fall. Finally, he crashed to the ground like a rotted, old oak. Cole wiped his fingerprints from the gun with a cloth and carefully wrapped his Father's still-warm fingers around the Glock.
The neighbours would have heard the gunshot, Cole knew no one would call the cops, this was the Bowery and it was every man for himself. Here, you could watch someone being strangled to death on the street from the safety of your home window and feel justified that you had done the right thing. Cole relied on the bystander effect and the fear of his neighbours to ensure that he escaped before the police arrived.
Cole promised himself beforehand that he would not take anything from the scene, but looking at the perfect picture of his parents he felt compelled to keep something. A body part would work from his mother but it would ruin his plan if he took a finger from his father. He thought about it for a minute, standing beside the cooling body of Father.
Hair. That was the easiest way. Cole's parents both had dirty brown hair with a few greys scattered through. He cut a clump from Father's shoulder length hair and put it on his couch, then did the same for Mother. He would have to decide what to do with it later, possibly another trophy or maybe he would make it into something he could keep with him all the time.
Cole packed an overnight bag and left it on the couch that was his bed. He stripped down, removing his blood covered clothing, grabbed a threadbare towel and his cheap toiletries. He would clean himself up, then he would move on the part three of his plan. The boy opened the door, the corridor was deserted and silent. His neighbours had disappeared, it made things easier, no explanations needed. He padded, barefoot to the communal bathroom and looked at his reflection. Dried blood splatters were layered with fresh, new blood from Father, Cole's grey eyes stood stark against the dark crimson covering his face.
He expected to look different, older, tougher, more accomplished, but he didn't. He still had the bruises and welts from Father's beating last night and the scaring on his body had not magically disappeared. None of the scars that his parents had given him had vanished. The years of abuse were still a bitter poison bubbling under his skin, he would never be rid of them. But at least he was free.
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