The Daily Post prompt—FROTH
The froth oozed from his mouth and joy lit my heart. He was dying, and I didn’t regret it. In fact, a sense of freedom bubbled up inside of me. The weight I’d been carrying for the last seven years had taken wing and was trying to escape through my mouth—my eyes—in the form of laughter. I tried to tamp down my excitement.
He stuck out his gnarled hand, like I would deign to take it. His eyes begged for explanation. How could he not know he was dying? We could never talk loud or show exuberance in his presence so I whispered to him to shut up. Then, I realized his time in control was over. I had the power now.
“Shut-up,” I shouted.
Anger flared in his eyes. Then confusion, and finally, understanding.
“Yes,” I said quiet again.
“I’m not proud of what I’ve down, but you deserved it!” I hissed the last part.
From the moment mother brought him home we kids saw what he was. His eyes were cunning, prying. My sister and I felt dirty when he looked at us. We kept our door closed and cringed whenever he came into a room. My brother, made to feel unwelcome in the home our father had provided for us, left soon after.
Now, my mother’s husband stared at me as though he didn’t understand. But my heart wasn’t softened. I felt nothing for him. Before my mother died, she’d been forced to move in with the very son she had forsaken. This sap sucker had drained the heart out of our family.
I’d forgiven my mother. She’d always been weak and gullible, but when she’d done nothing but stand by as he forged her name and stole my son’s trust money I imagined taking this man’s life.
While he watched, I took out my cell phone and face-timed my sister.
“It’s done,” I said pointing the telephone so she could see the white foam oozing out of his mouth.
“Get out,” she said.
“There’s no hurry. It’s still working on him and I need to see it finished.”
“I wish I could be there with you,” she said.
“I’ll be home soon.”
I worked as quickly as I could in the clumsy latex gloves I wore. Not because I thought anyone would come. This worthless piece of crap had only me. My fingerprints could be anywhere, but the good thing was we’d lived here so nobody would be suspicious of that.
I’d convinced him I cared about him and it was no surprise he’d been eager to take up with the child of the woman he’d stolen from and eventually killed.
Now, I’d killed him. I’d killed him for my mother and for my son.
My siblings and I had spent the last year figuring out how to get back our family home and the family income property which this interloper used to support his lazy, drugged out lifestyle.
We had quit driving through this part of town because each time we did, our grief and rage was palpable. Gradually, we concluded that only one thing could be done, and we drew straws to determine who would do it. I’d won, and it was not unbearable to do this for my family.
Our plan was for me to seduce him into letting me close enough to kill him only I hadn’t bargained for the revulsion I’d felt at letting him touch me. However, it was the only way to get back what was ours.
He had nothing else of value, and even if we’d had enough proof to send him to jail, relaxing out the rest of his life on the taxpayers was too good for him.
He slumped over and the frothy foam ran down his chin in a thin line. His anger had dissipated and now his sad, cloudy eyes followed my movements.
“Did you think you could stay here forever? Did you think this whole family was a bunch of spineless wimps?” I screamed.
I stopped wiping fresh prints off of the coffee table and the wine glass I’d drunk from. I took two deep breaths to calm myself. His head tilted forward like he wanted to say something and then it fell back like his neck was broken. Still, his stupid eyes followed me, begging me to save him. I laughed again, but there was no mirth in it. I was just releasing pent-up emotion.
I would live with this for the rest of my life.