Flecks of Red Paint
Today is the day I’ve been waiting for, the one that’s presented me with the perfect opportunity to kill my father.
Walking along the back of the house, I run my hand across the panels of wood, each one painted red. I think of this red house we call home, recalling the time my father made me help him repaint it two summers ago. Maybe you’ll learn something, he said. Maybe you’ll be useful for a change. So I gripped the ladder with both hands to hold it steady as he climbed up. My role seemed pointless, but he said it was important. If he were to fall, he might break his arm or leg. He might even break his neck, he warned.
If only, I thought.
But I held the ladder in place, giving it my all. If I failed in this one simple task, I’d be in big trouble. I didn’t care if he fell and hurt himself, but I didn’t want to give him a reason to fly into yet another rage. When something goes wrong, someone has to pay. With sweaty palms, held that ladder tightly, growing more anxious with each step he took up the rungs. The whole time he was up there, I couldn’t let my guard down for a second. Whenever the ladder moved at all, I tightened my grip or adjusted my stance. Should something go wrong, I had to be ready to react. With a single misstep, he could slip and fall.
As the day wore on, I helped out more. I rinsed brushes out, filled the bucket we were using with fresh water, and scraped off old paint. The fact that the old coat was chipping away in so many different places is what made my father decide to repaint the house in the first place. We couldn’t have that, our red house chipping and cracking. So we scraped off what we could and painted over the rest, making what was old new again.
Day has now turned into night. The dingy light from the kitchen window cuts into the darkness around me. I’ve been on both sides of this wall. I’ve seen my mother on the other side, alone, washing dishes. I’ve been there with her, helping out. I wonder what we look like standing side by side. Do we seem like any other mother and son, normal and unafraid?
The light from the kitchen window reveals nothing. Sometimes, it’s better to remain in the dark.
My father is inside the red house, and I’m here, just outside its back wall. I don’t bother looking in. I don’t need to. I know what’s in there, I know what’s waiting.
Mother is gone, which means she’s safe. She’s at church. We hardly ever accompany her, and she doesn’t push it. I don’t think she cares for all that religious talk, the myths of a higher power watching over us and such. We’re in the midst of our own myth, making the story up as we go. I’m trying to change it; she’s trying to live with it as best she can. It’s hard, so getting away to church offers relief. Every now and then, all she needs is a little break. So she volunteers to bake for potlucks, help with fundraisers, or gather hand-me-downs for the less fortunate. She sits with the church ladies, discussing whatever it is they discuss over tall glasses of sweet tea. They gossip, I’m sure. I can hear them now, talking about that new woman who joined the congregation, the quiet one with the husband who drinks too much – but then they quickly change the subject, embarrassed to have brought it up since my mother also has a husband who drinks too much. I wonder if that other husband likes to scream and hit people when he drinks, like my father. I wonder if the church ladies gossip about that too.
Or maybe they spend their time talking about the end of the world. It’s a popular topic here in the mountains, mostly amongst the old-timers. The end is coming, they say. Any day now.
They’re probably right. It feels like something big is about to happen. I’m not sure it’s such a bad thing, this end of the world they speak of.
With my right hand, I scratch along the side of the house, scraping away tiny red flecks of paint, some of which get stuck beneath my fingernails. The further I drag my hand, the more it hurts. I stare down at my stained fingertips, thinking back to that day I helped my father paint the house. Even then, I was tempted to shake things up. What if I didn’t hold the ladder so tightly? What if I shook it, making him fall?
That would have been pointless since our house isn’t very tall. At best, he might break an arm or a leg. Still, maybe I could try again. Maybe I could tell him some shingles have blown off the roof. And then, I’d hold that ladder for him once again, watching him climb up. This time, I could strategically place a large rock on the ground for him to hit when I shake him loose – but he’d have to land on it just right. Or, maybe I could use a rock to bash his skull in after the fall, hoping no one would notice he didn’t land against it on his own. Maybe I could leave something sharp and sturdy nearby, like a large pair of shears – and maybe he’d land just right, impaling himself. Maybe I could take the sheers and impale him myself, making it look like an accident.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I can’t depend on maybe forever. So instead, I’m going to burn it all down. I’ve already drugged my father with a large dose of sleeping pills, grinding them up days before and then slipping them into his drink when the opportunity presented itself. He should be passing out right about now. He’s a careless man, always smoking too much. Always drinking too much. It won’t be hard to believe it was an accident.
I’ll enjoy watching everything go up in flames. I have hated the red house almost as long as I’ve hated him. I can feel the heat rising, inside and out.
Cameron L. Mitchell is a queer writer who grew up in the mountains of North Carolina. His work has appeared in Vol. 1 Brooklyn, The Queer South Anthology, Literary Orphans, Gravel Literary Magazine, and a few other places. He lives in New York and works in archives at Columbia University. Find him on Twitter: @CameronLMitchel
