Garbage

I haven’t spent a single dollar from my husband’s bank account – the path of locusts has lost its value.

The bath is excellent, but even it won’t help me get rid of the smell.

I’ve been stinking since waking up from my coma. Nobody notices the odor of decay except for me. At first, I thought it was from my encounter with Billy’s gang, and then from wallowing in the city’s filth.

When a nurse in the hospital told me that a couple of men from the police had come to talk to me, I heard a familiar voice behind the door – someone was chatting with my doctor.

I’ve never escaped the memory of that voice. It always addressed my Dad as “sir.”

The doctor had categorically forbidden any visits, so later I rewarded him by escaping and stealing my health card – to erase any proof of my stay there.

Oliver begged me to see a doctor, but I had already learned what disease was.

Opening the card, I read the reason for the smell and my cough.

Tuberculosis. A countdown disease.

Judging by the doctor’s comment, it had developed over five years – just when I encountered the “fox.” I laughed for a long time when I read that any stress or cold would make the pneumonia worse.

Daddy’s people are following me and my secret – even a hunter is afraid of becoming the prey – but my goombah takes me first. I almost see how he is waiting for me – the homeless dog is wagging tail genially at his feet.

Tomorrow the editor will receive an envelope and find my letter with my descriptions of that night and a micro-flash drive. It holds the evidence of my Daddy's financial operations including a secret ledger, which I stole from his work laptop when I fled from home. I hid it in my pendant – behind a photo of my Dad.

It was supposed to be my insurance in case of an emergency. And at the same time, it has taken too much from me.

The horror of Daddy pushed me forward like a fox. I’ve always saved only my own skin. But after everything, I am tired.

I’ve played the last role – the eyewitness to the crime that I am obligated to report to society about the baggage my Daddy is still hiding – what I should have done five years ago.

I see the little photo of us – me and my Dad – like in my childhood dreams and my adult nightmares. The photo gets wet quickly and deliquesces in my arms.

Soon the nightmare will be over.

Hot water is covering my body. Something is bursting in my chest and setting me free from the endless heaviness of fear and falsehood. I close my eyes. I feel so calm and light!

I am home. That’s what truly makes me happy.

The end