My dad is having a hard time coping with his wife’s murder.
As you can imagine, he isn’t taking the whole thing well. My parents divorced when I was a lot younger, and she was his second wife. From what I know, they had a good relationship. In fact, I always thought she was a good influence on him. But did I actually like her myself? I respected her, liked her, and was polite to her, but I can’t say I loved her. Don’t get me wrong, what happened to her is horrific, and I can’t imagine she did anything remotely possible to deserve anything like it.
Not surprisingly, he seems like a totally different person since it happened. One night, she left home and was found dead in her car about two hours away. No one has any idea what happened. Not gonna lie, it creeps me out a bit. Especially knowing the person hasn’t been caught.
About a week ago I heard him talking. It was late at night, and I can’t say I was surprised. The doctors had given him something to help him sleep, but I don’t know how effective it was. It made him groggy and susceptible to sleepwalking. He had also been indulging in a few drinks, which is not good on something like sleeping pills. Still, I couldn’t really blame him. Ever since it happened, I had been staying at his place to keep an eye on him and all that.
I heard him get up and sort of fumble around in the dark. Believe me, I knew better than to try to wake a sleepwalker. So I tried to just lie there and let it pass. He might have gone to the bathroom or something because I’m pretty sure I heard that door open. To my surprise, I heard him mumble something.
“Veronica is gone, and here I am, stuck with the person who killed her. Almost every day like clockwork, I have to look at that conniving asshole. It’s not bad enough you kill her, your face tortures me day after day. Well, one day you’ll crack, and your ass will be locked away for good. If you’re lucky. Because I hope to God, I get to you before the cops do.”
I didn’t hear him say anything more before he shuffled back into his room. The door creaked shut again, and everything was silent.
My brain, on the other hand, was anything but. Part of me was wondering if I really heard that. I sat up gingerly, patting myself on the arm to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Yup, that really happened. So I just laid there dumbfounded. I didn’t think it was possible, but I felt even worse for him than before. Not only was his wife taken from him, but it was someone he knew. Someone he was forced to deal with. I can’t imagine anything worse. It’s bad enough when someone wrongs you, but being forced to behave as if nothing happened is downright unbearable.
The first thing I wondered was why didn’t he report it to the police. With a sinking feeling, I answered my own question. Maybe he did, and it didn’t go anywhere. Or worse, maybe the police already knew and just couldn’t prove it. It happens far more than people like to think. Feeling a chill run up my spine, I couldn’t help but wonder who Dad knew that was capable of something like that. A quick mental check didn’t yield any results. Someone who had a grudge against him was the most likely. Or someone who he had one against. While I admit I hadn’t been in touch with him as much as I’d like, there still isn’t anyone in his circle who I’d suspect of such a thing.
But that didn’t make things any easier. If anything, it just made it worse. My own father thought his wife’s murderer was someone he saw on a regular basis. Over the next few days, I tried to keep an eye on stuff. A handyman or cleaning lady perhaps? But according to him the few people he did occasionally use for stuff like this were people he really liked. I didn’t push the matter and tried to act as nonchalant as I could. Inside though, I was on edge, mentally running through people he knew and asking, “Could they have done it?” When I couldn’t answer yes to any of them, I began to feel truly afraid. No matter who they were, they were around.
All I could do was wait for him to sleepwalk again to see if he said anything more. Every night when he went to bed, I felt my adrenaline shoot up. I would get out of bed, quietly walk to my door, and peer out the tiny crack I kept open at night.
Every time I would silently scream “Come on start talking again,” but he wouldn’t. I felt so weird peering at my Dad sleepwalking. But hey, this was a bit of an unusual circumstance. While he did sleepwalk a little bit, he wouldn’t talk. At least, not for a few days.
When he did it last night, I almost leaped out of my skin when I heard his voice. I was staring through the crack in the door, and once he began talking, I felt my heart almost leap into my throat.
“You think you got away with it, did you? Well, keep thinking that. Your day will come. I guarantee it. Sleep well you son of a bitch.”
He walked back into his room after that and shut the door.
I felt like my chest was going to explode. Seeing him in the bathroom talking like that had been creepy before, but now it was more disturbing than I could imagine. It had been bad when I thought all he was talking about was revenge, but now I realized something. He hadn’t just been talking in the bathroom, he had been talking to something in the bathroom. His voice sounded exactly the same as last time when just now, I saw him lean in and address the medicine cabinet.
The medicine cabinet complete with a large mirror.
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