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Guilty

A Horror Short Story

By Bekah SchofieldPublished 5 years ago 3 min read
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He killed my daughter. He killed her in cold blood and yet there he stood, free as the day it had happened.

He was always in the same spot, never moving, or so it seemed to me, always there, as if taunting me. In the beginning, I tried to avoid him, I really did. I went out of my way, destroyed any connections to him, bloodied my own hands just to get away from him, but he always found me again, or maybe I found him. Sometimes I wasn’t really sure. I then realized that I needed to see him for when I didn’t see him, I would forget about her. When I saw him, he would be standing over her cold corpse. When I saw him, I felt the rage I had felt when I first saw what he had done. I wanted that rage, I needed that rage. How was I a father if I did not feel rage over her death, rage towards the one who killed her? When I did not see him, I forgot about this. I forgot about the rage, and about her. I guess that was my curse, to have those two horrible things connected. To want to forget his face, forget that he existed, but being unable to without forgetting her.

When I passed him sometimes he would smile half-heartedly, as if in some form of an apology. But most of the time he would just try and avoid my eyes, looking down instead at my feet or hands and I would do the same. To look in his eyes would mean I would try to hurt him in a similar manner for it seemed fit that I give him some punishment for the way he brutalized my daughter, the punishment he had not gotten. The police hadn’t even conducted a proper search of her murder. They said she had run away, that a hitchhiker had seen her and killed her before dumping her naked body along the highway. If only they had talked to her friends and family we would have all said that she was smart enough not to take rides from strange men. If only they had properly examined the body they would have found the poison that she ingested. If only they had seen the road they would have seen the clues pointing to the true murderer, to where he lived. If only they had tried.

But no, they had not. And now my daughter is dead and her killer roams the street, goes to work, gets groceries, grieves over a death he caused when the only true punishment is to live a life of guilt and shame from those he values and loves behind the prison’s merciless bars. But no, and now here he stands in front of me.

I couldn’t stand the sight of him, as he stood there as always, looking at me, this time not breaking eye contact. My fists shivered at my side, a rage I wanted to let out but had kept restrained. Restrained because of what it would mean if I did, what illusions it would shatter. But then he smiled, not an apologetic one but a smug one. Where the lips curve up at the ends, the eyes winking and eyebrows raised, a knowing look, one that divulged that he knows what he did, that he knows what he deserves but he also knows he will not get it. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stormed closer to him but he did not back down, he gazed me down as equally as I did him. Then the rage overtook me, my minds going blank as I lashed out, my punch shooting through his stomach.

The sound of glass shattering sounded throughout the room as it fell to the floor. My fist hovered in the air, the blood dripping down onto the mirror pieces. I stared down at it, at the killer reflected back. Silently I bent down and began to gather them together, not meeting his eyes.

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About the Creator

Bekah Schofield

I am an 18-year old sixth form student in England. I study English Literature, Science BTEC and Psychology at my school. I spend my free time writing and reading and would love to study Creative Writing at Univesity. Thank you for visiting!

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