The Story of Blood and Roses

"Mia…" I could hear my father calling my name. I heard the knock on my door again. I scribbled the answers in my notebook.

"Mia?" My father's voice was louder this time.

'What's he doing at home? He's never home.' I thought bitterly as I walked towards the closed door.

My father hadn't come home for my birthday or his own anniversary, yet here he was, suddenly appearing out of nowhere acting like he cared about his family.

As the door creaked open, I took in the figure of my father. I had not seen him in a while, but he looked… different. He was holding the doorframe as if to support his trembling body. I leapt forward to catch him as his knees buckled and guided him inside the room. He was heavy, but I somehow managed to seat him on my bed.

"What is it?" I asked softly as I stood in front of him. A sob broke out of his chest as he pulled me into his chest and squeezed me. I was stunned. I grew still as I heard him mumble incoherently.

"I'm so sorry," I thought I heard him say. The words were jumbled, his tears cracked his voice. I scrunched my brow as I tried to process the sorry figure of my father. I grew desperate. My constant questions did nothing to coax a comprehensible answer from him. I pushed away from him eventually, grabbing onto his shoulder and shaking him gently to snap him out of his state.

His eyes were red and swollen when he finally looked up at me. His sobs had ebbed away, but his body still trembled.

"Your ma. . . is dead."

"Wha…?"

"Your mother was killed!" He spat out as if muttering a curse. I recoiled in horror.

'What kind of sick joke is this?'

My mother had informed me that she had an important task to complete. I knew that she must have been hunting down another criminal and making the world a better place for everyone to live in. She had told me that she would be gone for a couple of days, only a little while. I knew from prior experience that trying to call her or contact her in any way was a risk and would put her in harm's way, so I had kept to myself, knowing that she would be home safe before the week ended.

I didn't really remember much of that night as I grew older. I only remembered my father I clutching onto each other as we tried to suspend our disbelief. I think we cried until there were no tears left for us to shed.

I remembered the morning after vividly. It was carved into my consciousness and would never leave me even in sleep. They brought my mother's body home at around eleven in the morning. I begged them to at least let me see her face, but they refused. I didn't understand why I was being punished like that. Why could I not see my mother for one last time?

But I was a stubborn child, and I had learned my ways from my mother. I bypassed all of them and peeked at her face. I remember the silence the surrounded me as I tried to process the jarring image of my mother, lying lifeless in front of me. Her face was mutilated. Deep jabs marred her cheeks. Her face was pale and puffed; her eyelids were missing.

I screamed in agony.

Maa was dead.

I felt my father hold me, support me. He, too, had dared to look at his wife's face. I could only imagine how it felt to him. I lost two people that day: my mother and my father.

[My blood boiled in my veins as anger rose with each step I took. I was elated; finally, my mother's murderer would receive the same treatment he bestowed on her.]

We'd been home for an hour after coming back from the funeral when the doorbell rang. My father, still dazed, sat on his spot as I took the initiative to open the door. He was a young man with defined facial features. I was too short to see the color of his eyes, but they seemed like a mysterious grey hue from where I stood. His hair was jet black, slightly falling over his temple and obstructing his view of the world.

"Who are you?" I asked firmly, knowing that no sign of fear would work with my parents' line of work.

"Is your father home?" he asked, smiling politely at me.

"No. You can leave a message." I narrowed my eyes at him in suspicion. No one came to our house looking for us.

"You are just like your mother," he said, tilting his head to a side as he observed me with interest. He seemed rather amused by something.

"You knew my mother?" My voice grew cold. My lids felt heavy as tears threatened to escape my eyes.

"I did. We played a wonderful game of hide-and-seek."

I didn't understand.

"Anthony Murray!" It was my father's loud voice that startled me. The name seemed vaguely familiar... like I had heard it somewhere in a conversation. I searched my mind for a moment and remembered my father whispering to one of his colleagues about Anthony Murray.

The murderer.

"Why the hell are you here?"

"I just wanted to say goodbye to one of the most beautiful women in the world." He smirked.

My father lunged at him. He dodged.

The heated conversation continued for what seemed like an eternity.

I kept quiet. When I found my voice the words that came out of my mouth were those I intended to fulfill. It was a promise I made to myself.

"I am going to kill you." They didn't hear me.

"I am going you kill you." My voice grew firmer.

"What did you say, little girl?" he asked with a smile.

"I am going to kill you someday. Remember that." His smile vanished and he stared at me for a long time. A devious smile spread across his lips.

"Sure you will, my kitten." He leaned down and planted a kiss on my cheek.

I stared at him in disgust, yet he had the audacity to look amused.

"Darling, I am only twelve years older than you. Someday we'll meet, and you will be the death of me." He turned around and left.

My father was left staring into space. He too followed Anthony out of the house. That was the last time I ever saw him.

Both of them.

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