Takiyah Reid
The Tell-Tale Heart: A Prequel
He’s yelling again, at two in the morning and I can’t sleep anymore. He cheated again, she keeps letting him cheat. I hate him. I hate her. They hate me too. He said he wished I was a boy, he said he wouldn’t do it if I was a boy. He says girls are too sensitive -- That they always cry. I never cry. I don’t let him see my emotions. He’ll kick me out if I do, and I don’t want to be in the dark again; the cold -- It’s scary out there.
I jump, fear creeping into my bones. It starts at my toes, to my knees, runs through my arms, makes the hair on my neck stand, and it blossoms in my chest. There was a crash; more crashing, I can only picture glass everywhere. Beer bottles. White and green glass across the oak wood floors. Blending in with its surroundings, waiting for its next victim, the next person it can cut. My father. He’s yelling again. My mom isn’t yelling anymore. She must be out. He’s going to come for me now, I can anticipate it more acutely now. He has to take out his anger somehow. Mom wasn’t enough so it’s my turn. I have to hide. I have a secret hiding place, I call it my Heaven, my sanctuary. It’s right under my floorboards, just enough space for me to spread out, so peaceful that I forget my problems. I forget about all the bad things. I dream. I dream that I have a loving family, that I have friends, I dream of happiness. I’m just about to crawl in when I hear footsteps coming closer by the second. Faster! I have to go faster! I’m almost too late when I hear a doorknob turning; the old wooden door creaking, footsteps. Slow footsteps, so, so slow. Meticulous; calculated; careful steps. But I know that he isn’t really paying attention, I know he’s drunk and angry. He does this all the time. He gets drunk, hurts my worthless mother and when he’s done with her he hurts me, and in the morning I eat pancakes, my English muffin, and my apple juice. He apologizes, swears he’ll never do it again, and buys me another doll. He’s a coward. A selfless, heartless, arrogant, worthless piece of crap. He’s too proud to see that he holds the blame. He’s too well known, too much of a pristine businessman, I want to kill him. I’ll do it one day. I start dreaming again. Of how I’ll do it, where I’ll put the body, where I’ll go after. Right when I’m thinking of where I could hide him, the planks open up. My secret entrance, it’s opening, ratting me out, welcoming the demon who thinks he’s my father into my Heaven; my sanctuary.
How’d he know? How did he find out? I can’t escape. There’s nowhere to go. I can’t breathe, can’t move. Maybe if I stand still enough he won’t see me. I can’t show my fear, it only makes him angrier. I won’t show him that I’m afraid. So I act asleep. But it’s to no avail when he slaps me awake. I wake up, but I don’t look up. I can’t. It’s too scary. He grabs my chin, hard, he makes me look. Then I see it. The thing that puts the most fear into my body. Those disgraceful eyes. They’re disgusting. Dreadful; horrifying; abhorrent! Two. Two eyes. Two blue orbs. Two black, soulless pupils, so small. A black hole. 2 Lifeless eyes. The lightest of the lightest blue. It reminds me of a blue sky with clouds, and the sky is falling. The world is ending. It has already ended in his eyes. Mine still has hope. I hate those eyes. They’re so blue they’re almost transparent. During the day, they make him look more handsome when he’s smiling his million-dollar smile. A plastic smile; so so so fake. But at night, it makes him look like a murderer, a man who cares for no one, a man who’s so fake, a coward. I’ll kill those eyes...when I have the courage.
I have no courage now looking at those transparent-blue circles. My bones are shattering, the hairs on my neck standing to attention, my hands shaking so hard they could cause an earthquake. I’m terrified. I shouldn’t feel this way around my Father, I should feel loved, comforted, protected. Right now, I have to fight for my life. I have to. So...where’s my bravery? Where?! I need it now! I need it! All these thoughts in one minute, but in one second my confidence fades, I don’t think it’s brave enough to come back. In one second, I’m slapped, in one second I’m on the floor, In one second he’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him. In one slow second, I feel time slow down, a fist coming 70 miles per hour toward my face, the bravery arrives too late. I’m too late. Maybe next time because in one second I see black.
Guess what I’m eating, a blueberry English muffin and some quiche. The best in town, it feeds my hunger but doesn't heal my wounds. I’m still in pain from last night. I’ve counted 14. 14 bruises; 3 new ones on my arm, face, and torso. It’s usually 1 per night but I think I’ve upgraded. I got a necklace today. A pearl necklace. None of the girls at my private school has one, my father says. That’s supposed to make it more special I guess. I’ve learned to live with bruises now. I’m at the age where razors are needed to keep my feminine appearance. There’s supposed to be hair in my razor but there’s only blood. The burning of the cuts makes me feel better. It’s a different pain, it’s better because I’m the one who’s in control. No one will find out anyway, I have to wear long sleeves and pants to cover my bruises. Not suspicious at all. If anyone found out, I’d go to the asylum like all those crazy people. If I go there, I’ll never make it out, they’ll mess with my brain and make me crazy. I can’t go there because I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy! I’m great! I’m sane! I’m - I’m - n - not-crazy. I’m fine. I’m fine. I won’t go there. If they take me I’ll kill them! NO NO NO! I’m not v-violent. I-I’m fine. I-I won’t hurt anyone. I’m too focused in my head, I don’t realize my father is talking to me, “Julliette. Julliette?” I turned to him. “It’s time for school.”
The worst place to go when you can’t fit in. If you’re not fake enough, not pretty enough, not mean enough you won’t be accepted. As we are arriving, my dad grabs me, “Don’t tell anyone about last night. You’ll regret it. Wear your pretty pearls, pumpkin.” I yank my arm away, but I know I’ll get hit for that later. Doesn’t matter, He can’t hurt me in front of all these people. I should do what I can while I can. My first class is English. Of course, I love it, I wouldn’t say it out loud, I’m not trying to add to the list of ‘Reasons to bully Julliette’.
Amy, Jennifer, and Melissa, the three brow beaters. They tyrannize me the most because my dad is richer than theirs and I don’t act like them. Once again it’s about money, that’s what everything is about. They’re throwing stuff at me in class and the teacher doesn’t seem to notice. If she perhaps did and confronted the three she’d lose her monthly paycheck and would have to work at some run-down diner. Wouldn’t want to cease her weekly splurge of Bottega Veneta bags, Tiffany’s jewelry, and dinners at Steak And Ale.
In class, we’re making a short story. I’m not sure what I’m writing yet, maybe the title could be ‘How to get away with murder’ or ‘How to kill your father’ or hey how about ‘How to stand up to the person who’s supposed to love you but is abusing you without remorse’, ‘How to not be a coward’, ‘How to kill yourself’ and just like that I’m out of breath. Everyone’s looking at me, the girls are snickering, and I’m out of breath, sitting down. I must look crazy. But I’m not crazy. Did I say that out loud? “Are you alright, Dear?” Ms.Walters says, she seems concerned. But I know no one really cares, they’ll never care. I’m in my head for what feels like an eternity when I feel a tap on my shoulder, “I’m fine” I say and I notice class is nearly over. I think she can spot my lie, so I give a small grin for reassurance. I can’t remember the last time I smiled. It used to come so naturally, I feel awkward. Smiling, why is it called smiling? Why do we smile? Smiles are useless. I hear the bell, a wretched, ear-bleeding sound. I get up to leave, but Ms.Walters is calling me. Oh, my. She waits until everyone's gone to speak.
“Julliette, are you doing alright, um, I-I noticed you have a little bruise on your cheek. Do you get into a fight?”
“I’m fine.”
“Is home doing alright? How’s your mother, I hear your father made 34 car sales this month, you must be proud.”
I don’t speak. I don’t dare. I’m afraid I’ll say something I’ll regret. So I wait her out.
“I’m worried about you Julliette, your grades have slipped.”
Is this what the conversation is really about? Is she worried or nosy? Or is she making sure I don’t get her fired?
“Would you like a tutor?” Silence, “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
“I don’t need your help.” She’s trying to fix a problem she doesn’t have the heart to contain.
“J-Juliette...I-I’m sorry. I wouldn’t dare pry but, I-I saw your arms sweetheart. Are you - why are you hurting yourself, sweetie. Is it your parents? I can call people to have them arrested.”
She’s skipping from topic to topic. I can’t trust her.
“NO! I-I’m fine. I-I don’t need your help. Leave me alone!”
I walked away from class as quickly as I could. Running would be suspicious. I hate when people pry. They act as if they care, they act nobly. They get in people’s business and then stab you in the back. Everyone is fake and I’ll kill them. No - I won’t. I-I hate my life.
It’s lunch now, I eat outside. I’m eating some giggle cookies and some slice soda while listening to Elton John on my Walkman. The song is ending and I see 3 bodies in my peripheral vision. My gut tells me it’s the 3 demons. I’d like to snap their necks and break their jaws. I mean it this time. Jennifer’s the first one I notice with her pristine red collar uniform, plastic pearl necklace, and blackstrap makeshift 1-inch heels.
“What you listening to Julie? Some sad, heartbreaking crap?” She says, and the rest laugh like the joke was worth an Emmy award.
I pretend I don’t hear them, but then she rips the headphones off my head and breaks them along with a piece of my patience; Like a KitKat.
“You're brave.” Am I? “You think you’re better than me and everyone at school.” Do I? “You really think you can ignore me?” Aren’t I?
I keep a calm facade even though I feel a slight irritation surfacing. They don’t scare me and they never will. Only those eyes can. I’m not interested in her tactless banter.
“You know, a little birdie told me you cut yourself.” But that interested me. How’d she find out? Who’s this little birdie? Will they tell? Will I go to the asylum? Will I have to kill them?
“You know, this is how the journey to the asylum starts. They’ll kill you in there, you dumb brat!” This is when I look up. She’s like my father; a coward. I give her a death stare, a warning.
Amy chimes in, “I think she wants to kill us.” They start laughing like I won’t do it.
Mellisa attempts to speak but I beat her to it,” Just because you’re angry about your life, doesn’t mean you need to make my life hell. I am not concerned if you like me or dislike me, I don’t expect to have a mental affinity with everyone, I just prefer to be treated respectfully, but it seems that’s something your douchebag of a dad hasn’t taught you. Jealousy is a disease, I hope you get well soon.” As soon as I finish, I gather my things to walk away. But it’s never over, I’m pushed by an anonymous, I attempt to stand though forced to the ground once more. I’m kicked and I hunch over. Another kick, another, it seems that they think violence will solve the problem, when will it end?
“You shouldn’t have opened your mouth, you rat.” A voice, it’s...Jennifers.
I stand up, I wobble, but I have a conscience now.
“You think we’re all crazy, we all know your dad is a psycho, we know what he does, and he’ll go to jail for it..” She laughs.
How’d she know?! How do they know?! HOW?! WHO TOLD THEM?! I’LL KILL THEM!
“I’ll be telling my father, and your dad will be going away, and you and your mom will be sent to an asylum. Seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My mom saw your mother’s cuts. She’s far more demented than you are, and you’re going to rot in the asylum until your skin is saggy, until your bones are creaking, and until you can’t see what’s in front of you.”
Each word, each letter, each syllable, every sentence is pushing me to the edge. She doesn’t know me or my family, so how the hell does she know! I’m not going to an asylum, I’m not crazy, I’m not a psycho! She has to die, no more words will come from her, this is the right thing to do.
“Have a fun time in Hell!” With that, they all start walking away. They think it’s over. I’m still calculating. Finding a precise opening, and...and I see it. I see a stone, a pretty large one, a perfect size for the job - Haha! This is probably the most meticulous murder! All I see, all I know, all I breathe is rage as I run toward the 3 bodies, I find the one in the middle, and I aim for the blonde skull, and I forget. I’m so blinded by rage that I’m unsure of my actions. I see her on the sidewalk, I’m on top of her and I’m hitting. Hitting her face; her eyes, jaw, cheek, mouth, and nose. Anywhere my fist can land, I aim for it. I see blood, is it hers or mine? Still, that thought doesn’t stop me, my knuckles and arms ache but I won’t stop, hands pull me from the bloody body but my task isn’t complete. I know the situation is deteriorating and I don’t care. She needs to die and I’m going to kill her, I’ll kill them all, I’ll kill him, and I’ll kill those eyes.
I’ve killed her. 2 years later and I still think of the moment, every evening I feast with my demented family, every crispt night the moon decides to shine and the crickets feel like announcing their presence, I think of her screaming. When I wake up in the morning I brush my teeth with her blood; they’re as white as ever, so straight and fake.
As I look upon my reflection I see her behind me, her broken; disfigured face. So very bloody. Her pale, freckled face, those blue eyes, perfect teeth, and pink lips, all 6 feet under now. All that is left are memories, pictures, and hallucinations. She won’t leave me be, she’s always by my side, she won’t let loneliness come and say hi to me. She’s my friend from dusk to dreams to dawn. She was mostly dead when I hit her with the stone, and I kept it. She tells me to get rid of it but it’s my first souvenir. My first kill. It gives much importance, so much importance that I gave it an anniversary. We celebrate all the time. It makes me so happy, so happy that I stood up for myself, gave my life importance; a mission. If you ponder why I’m not behind bars. It’s nothing money can’t fix, nothing a new neighborhood, new state, and new name can’t vanish, and definitely nothing a couple; numerous lies can’t get you.
My papa, my dad, my father. He’s not off the hook, and he won’t receive the honor of a coffin, a river, or maybe a bed of cement is fitting. I’ve been planning a proper murder for the past two years, so meticulously, so well thought of, so calculating, so brilliant! Of course, I’m not insane, no one that’s insane is as patient as I, it’s impossible! I’m different, better, smarter! Not insane, not normal, I’m different. I have an ability no one else has. No one else can understand the extent of my potential. I’ve gotten very powerful. After Jennifer's death, he looks at me differently, like he knows he’s next, he seems to show me respect. But of course, he still hits me, who else will satisfy his hunger for violence. He put my mother in the asylum for going to the police, he claims I’m next if I try anything. It was a very cowardly tactic, he uses sadistic, menacing; toxic schemes to gain control over those who are deemed ‘close’ to him. A classic example of a male.
I almost have everything figured out, It’s just a matter of timing. I plan every day, every moment, every second I can think. It’s the only thing on my mind. Only thing I dream of now. Jennifer decides to include her ideas of how I should eradicate him, a slow, excruciating death.
Every night I watch him, follow his routine, his habits, what he watches out for. This is how you kill someone without getting caught. I plan to kill him in a week. I have to keep watching him, he’s going to be here soon. As I’m taking my pain pills to get ready for his arrival, I hear the door slam shut. He’s here too early, why is he here so early it’s only about 6 in the night. I go out of my room to greet him, and as I’m walking through the foyer I hear him on the phone. He’s speaking with the utmost allusion of sorrow and despondent when he says, “I-I don’t know, I think she’s following her mother’s footsteps. I’m trying to stray her away from the insanity, I know what psychopaths are like and I would die for her to get better, I just don’t think I can help her. She’s showing signs and she needs medical attention.” A couple of yeses and no’s and lies come from his mouth. I’m struck. I can’t move. They’re coming to get me, I can’t let this happen. I should’ve killed him sooner. I’m overcome with rage, a far greater feeling than before I killed Jennifer. This is an anger, a wrath coming from the depths of my core. It’s been held in for centuries, put aside like an inconvenience. It’s coming to life now, blooming, vibrating through my whole body. I can feel it on my fingertips, in my legs, my arms in my eyes, this ends now! I walk away briskly and quietly, I head to the kitchen and grab the sharpest knife, and I hide it in the band of my pants. I run to the bathroom to get his antidepressants and start crushing them, when I’m finished I put the powder in a small plastic bag and put it in my pocket. He takes them every other day and they make him disoriented. He’ll be so out of it by the time I slice his throat. I head to the living room where I hear Jerry Coleman commentating about baseball and my father on the couch, tie undone and a beer in his hand.
“Good afternoon father.”
“Go fetch me a beer.”
Foolish, foolish father. I go to the kitchen and grab a beer, I open it and pour the powder in, as I’m shaking the bottle, I’m hit on the head and I fall on the floor. What the hell? I think I see blood, is it mine?
“You idiot girl, so disgraceful, you thought you could drug me! You are out of your mind!”
The yelling is making the beating in my head excruciating. I thought my plan was impenetrable, but it seems that he’s been on to me.
“I now hold the most logical purpose to send you off.”
I’m still struggling to stand when I say, “No no no father, I won’t let you, you bastard.”
This provokes him and kicks me, my own father kicks me. My head is still pounding but I’m not unconscious yet so I have to take advantage.
He’s now kneeling on the side of me and hesitates, so I punch him in his throat. He starts gagging and coughing and making exaggerated movements. When I reach for my knife, he punches me, a lazy attempt, but I received it to the nose, and I think I’m bleeding. I feel a punch, and then another in my stomach, I think I’m being kicked too. The pounding in my head is piercing, the ache of my body is excruciating, Jennifer is yelling in my head, telling me to get up but I can’t, she’s being useless, she’s panicking, I wish she would go away. Then a thought comes to mind and I play dead. As if a bear is planning to feast on my organs. I can hold my breath for 3 minutes and so I stop breathing and close my eyes. Then the kicking stops, the punches halt. I hear ragged breathing, he’s out of breath. A feeling on my neck tells me he’s checking for a pulse. A sigh of relief, footsteps, and the refrigerator door opening and closing. I hear the pop of a cap coming off a bottle. I peak through my lashes to find his destination, he’s just standing there. His back facing me. I’m in pain but still able to move. I make deliberate movements to be stealthy and reach for my knife. And I see blood and I can’t believe it but I stabbed him. He’s on the floor. Blood coming from his torso. I rip the knife out to stab him again but I’m punched, a well-calculated punch lands on my chest and knocks the breath from my lungs. I fall back, and he crawls to me, an ungainly crawl, coming to hit me again, how is he still alive? I grab the knife and aim for his leg but he reads my intentions and knocks my arm away. I’m scrambling to get up, to do something, I need to get up and fight. He comes closer and I kick him in his stomach, right where the wound is and he’s screaming. I gather my strength to find the knife, and I start stabbing.
It’s been 16 days since my father died. 16 days since my second kill. 16 days and the cops haven’t found me. Those soulless, lifeless eyes that he harbored showed some entity before his last breath. His last words were a breathless sorry. His last receiving stab was in his eye. He thought I would show pity to a horrid disappointment such as himself. I am not, nor will I ever be magnanimous. What goes around comes around. My second kill souvenir is so so exquisite, I hold it very dear to my heart. I have 2 actually. The last beer cap he touched and a vial of his blood in my bag. If you’re wondering how the body was conceived then don’t hurt your brain while you still have some years ahead of you. I didn’t hide the body. I left him there. After I finished my massacre, I started to lose my senses. I drank some sips of his beer, I drank in the reality of the situation, I drank some of his blood, I drank in all the demons he’s left behind to befriend me. The memories bring me great joy, and brings a smile upon my face. I embrace the feeling, the happiness, the power. But what I don’t embrace is the rain. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary. I decided to ration the food and money I brought along my travels, so paying for somewhere to sleep for the night wouldn’t be astute. My new home is the space next to the Market, where I hold out a cup and wait for donations. People offer some coins, some dollars, some stare, and others offer pity.
I’ve walked to another town so no one should notice me, no one has, and I’ve been sleeping here for maybe a week and a half. It’s around 5 in the afternoon and all I see are men in suits stepping out from their Mustangs, Cadillacs, and Volkswagens.
“How old are you?” An old man in a trench coat, slacks, and this peculiar black patch on his right eye says to me. He holds a thick accent of a place other than America. A thick brown and silver bed of hair sleeps on his head. His left eye is a dull brown. I can’t see if he has a watch but he has thick silver with a blue designed ring on his right-hand forefinger.
After examining him I say, “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own age, aren't you close to cane days?”
“A teenager, yes? Did you lose your way?” I don’t answer.
“I have a phone if you would like to contact your parents.”
“I don’t have parents.”
“Orphan?” He says. I never thought of it that way. I’m not an adult yet, my father is dead and my mother is unable to take care of me. I-I’m an orphan.
“Why? Do you plan on taking care of me?”
“Sure, I have a daughter your age, she could use the company.”
“Are you deranged? Did you not bring your common sense before you left your house?”
“Well, of course, I am among the wisest you’ll ever meet, young lady.”
“If you were, you wouldn’t be asking a random child to come live with you.”
“If I see a person on the street, is it not my obligation to help them, feed them and give them shelter if I have the means to do so?”
“No one does that, an extra child would be an extra hassle.”
“Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked. Psalms 82:3-4”
I give him a puzzled look and he says, “If someone needs help, you help them, no matter race, no matter the status, and no matter the age. Even if they’re rude to you.” He laughs.
It’s dumb, I don’t even know him, I don’t know his name. It’s dumb but I want to live with him. A family is something I still long for. It’s a dumb idea. No one has ever helped me, helped, or taken care of me. It’s a trick. I shouldn’t trust him but I haven’t trusted anyone my whole life as much as him in 5 minutes. I’ve been wooed. But it doesn’t matter, because if he tries to hurt me then I'll hurt him.
“So, what do you say?” He holds out his hand. I stare at it, water droplets cascading down his calloused fingers.
I grab his hand, using it as leverage to lift me up. I keep his hand in a firm hold and keep direct eye contact.
“I am no easy mark. You will not take advantage of me, if you attempt to, I'll take your life in front of your daughter.”
“Deal, little one.” He smiles.
It’s a Tuesday and I’m eating an omelet, a blueberry muffin, and coffee. I haven’t had my third kill yet. I haven’t been to the asylum and I still talk to Jennifer and my dads’ demons. My mother died last year. Her demons caught up to her and suicide was her way out. Lisa, the old man’s daughter, moved away and got married 2 years ago. I’m all he’s got now. I’ve been living with the old man for 4 years. I’ve changed and the crazy hasn’t followed me to the country.
I’m free. I’ve learned to cook and bake. I have a garden. Lisa is having a baby, and she said I’ll be the aunt. We take care of people who need help. We’re sort of like a refuge house. I’ve gotten very close to the old man. We’ve had many memories together. Sort of like a happy ending right? Sort of. I have a family who, one who cares for me and loves me. I now know how a father is supposed to treat you. I’m happier. The old man though treats me as if I’m still a child. He deprecates some of my decisions, but he says I’m no longer uncouth, so a win-win.
There’s still much I don’t know about him, but neither am I open to expressing my past. So in this situation, patience is key. I ask him all the time why he has a patch over his right eye. I still haven’t seen it. He says he’s embarrassed about it so there’s no showing. He says he’ll show it to me one day. As I’m finishing breakfast, I hear him coming downstairs, so I start talking, coffee in hand. “There’s much to do at hand old man, I’m going out today in search of some groceries. The water bill is due in 3 days. Tom is coming to fix the plumbing. You have to remember to take your pills, and Tom said he’ll stop by to-” Crash.
I’m speechless. Words won’t find me at this moment. Letters, syllables, synonyms, adjectives, and grammar is something I don’t know at this moment because at this moment my brain won’t tell my lungs to breathe. The fear is smashing into me and choking me to tears. The crazy is coming back to me. The peace and happiness are shattered. I’m no longer free. I told myself I would let nothing scare me anymore but I’m staring at my worst fear. Shaking so hard. That terrifying thing is staring at me with such emotion. That soulless thing is back. It’s acting as if it cares but it’s ruthless. It hurt me and came to finish me off. The excruciating pale blue eye is staring at me once again in the body of my most trusted friend. It’s here! Here to kill me! That eye, that horrid eye.
That Evil Eye.