"What should we do now?" I asked, looking at everyone who was covered in blood as I clenched my teeth in anger. I turned to face Cecilia.
"It is not your fault, Cecilia," I said softly. "It is the people who could not help us when we cried out for help." Tears filled my eyes as my fist tightened. "They deserve to be punished." I patted her back, then turned toward my father's lifeless body.
I let out a heavy sigh and spoke again.
"So what are we going to do with his body?" I asked my sister.
"Let us bury him," she suggested, still shaken by the incident.
"No," my mother said. "Burn it and spread his ashes to the wind. It sounds fitting for him, I guess." She stood up, walked into the kitchen, and washed her hands. "I am going to a clinic to treat my wounds. You two should stay home."
"No, I cannot let you go out like that," Cecilia insisted. "You lost a lot of blood and you can barely walk. I should go with you too. I have some bruises."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. You may come." She turned to me. "Harry, what are you going to do?"
"I am going to burn the body," I replied. "I cannot let the police find it." I stood up from the ground. The rain had stopped, and darkness was slowly setting in.
After washing her hands, my mother Catherine did not say much after our discussion. She dried them quietly, glanced once more at the blood stained floor, and turned to my sister.
"Come," she said softly.
Without question, my sister followed her. Together, they cleaned what remained of the blood stains: wiping the floors, picking up shattered glass, and removing everything that told the story of what had just happened. The silence between them was not empty. It was survival. When they were done, they left quietly for the clinic, bruised and cut but alive.
I stayed behind.
In the compound behind our house, I gathered wooden planks and crates we had once used to shelter ourselves from the rain. They now formed a makeshift pyre. Gently, almost tenderly, I placed my father's body on it. His face was cold. His fists were finally unclenched. I searched his face for something: closure, understanding, anything at all. I found nothing. Only ash waiting to be born.
I lit the fire.
For the first time, I wept. These were not the angry tears I had held back for years. They were raw and bitter sobs, breaking free from deep within me. I cried not for the man he was, but for the father I once hoped he could be.
"I am sorry," I whispered in my heart.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
"Harrison," someone called softly.
I turned. My sister had returned earlier than I expected. Her arms were bandaged, and her face was pale. She knelt beside me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
"I came as soon as I got bandaged," she said quietly. "I wanted to send him off at least."
"It is okay, Harry," she whispered. "Do not beat yourself up. At least now we are free. Maybe we can finally taste a normal life."
I shook my head as the flames crackled before us.
"We cannot," I said, my voice low and breaking. "Not after what I did to Otis. And God knows how much Dad owed him. He will come back. He will come back to take what he thinks is his."
From the doorway, I heard the soft creak of wood as my mother stepped into the fading sunlight. Her face was unreadable, but she had been listening.
"That is why," she said calmly, "we will take the cash we have left and relocate. A new city. Not far, but far enough."
She walked closer, watching the fire consume what remained of James.
"In his final moments," my mother continued, "he apologized for being a bad father to you. He asked for your forgiveness. At least try, Harrison."
I did not answer immediately.
"But he was cruel," I muttered. "To all of us."
"Yes," she replied, her voice firmer now. "But he was also the man I once fell in love with. We met when we were just as broken as he eventually became. I did not see it then. But I stayed. And I am sorry you had to suffer for that."
Her hand rested on my shoulder, warm despite the cold night air. The flames were dying now, smoke curling into the twilight sky.
That night, sleep refused to come.
The house was unnaturally quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Every sound felt heavy. Every shadow seemed alive. I lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts returning to one place I had sworn never to enter again.
The basement.
To me, it was more than a room beneath the house. It was a graveyard of memories. It was where my father's voice turned into fists. Where fear lived permanently in the darkness. Where pain was taught, repeated, and normalized. My chest tightened just thinking about it.
Still, I knew I had to go.
I stood up slowly, my legs weak but determined, and grabbed the gallon of diesel we kept near the back door. My sister noticed immediately.
"Harry," she whispered, stepping closer. "What are you doing?"
"I need to check the basement," I replied quietly. "Father mentioned keeping our remaining savings there from years of quota."
Her eyes widened. "Let me come with you. Do not you think it is scary?"
I shook my head. "No. Stay here. Please."
She hesitated, pain flickering across her face, then nodded. I think she understood that this was something I had to face alone.
Each step down the basement stairs felt heavier than the last. The wooden steps creaked beneath my feet, louder than ever before. The air grew colder as I descended, thick with dust and neglect. My hands trembled as I raised the lantern, its weak light barely pushing back the darkness.
Images flooded my mind against my will. My father standing over me. His shadow stretching across the walls. His voice sharp and slurred. The sound of my own crying echoing through the space.
I swallowed hard and forced myself forward.
I moved slowly, scanning every corner.
Until I saw it.