Page 138 of Dissection of a Murder
“I’m going,” I said firmly. I swallowed hard to center myself. I knew I mustn’t back down now.
“You’re sixteen.”
“I don’t want to stay here.”
My voice trembled. Forcing myself to look him in the face went against all my instincts, but this was it: my escape. I was getting out and he needed to know I was strong enough to do it.
“Oh, we’re not good enough for you here anymore?” It was little more than a whisper; it didn’t need to be louder than that to have the intended effect.
“You’re not,” I shot back without thinking. “You know you’re not.”
I knew immediately it would escalate, but adrenaline was coursing through my body, and I understood that if I wanted this, I’d have to fight with everything I had.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“I know I am.”
He said nothing, initially. But he looked at me in a way he never had before, in that moment. It was a look of sheer hatred. He moved closer so that his nose was inches away from mine. I could feel his hot breath on my face, as I had on so many occasions before.
“You’remine,” he spat. “You think you can get away from me? You eventhinklike me now, you stupid, stuck-up, ungrateful bitch.”
“This isn’t the life I want. It’s not normal—I know that now. I don’t want to be like you.”
“You already are. And you know it.”
“No.”
“And the best part is, youlikebeing like that, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You love everything I taught you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You just don’t want to admit it,” he said softly, delicately placing his hands on the sides of my face. “Just like you don’t want to admit you love me. You don’t want to leave. Not really.”
He put his arms around me.
Having Stockholm syndrome with your own father is very complex. How does a child make sense of that? He had imprisoned me with a set of rules. Coached me to be just like him. To rely on him.But the rules had given me more than he’d bargained for. They’d made me cunning.
Rule #7: Beware the Talented Student.
I knew he’d never allow me to leave, but this truly felt like my last chance to escape. And so, after promising him I’d reject the offer, I went upstairs and waited.
Rule #8: Be Patient.
He used to settle on the sofa and watch films on Friday nights, drinking and smoking until late. He never used to open the windows. A thick fog of smoke would sit in the room, blurring everything in sight. He’d usually fall asleep, and I’d find him in the morning, passed out with the TV still on.
I stayed awake all night, watched the digital clock in my bedroom as it passed midnight. At 1 a.m. I crept downstairs in the freezing cold, tiptoeing to avoid the creaks on the third and seventh steps, until finally, I reached the bottom. I held my breath the entire time.
He was snoring heavily. One arm was hanging off the sofa. His mouth gaped open. A glass ashtray on the floor housed cigarette butts surrounded by eight empty lager cans. This man—this monster—had ruined my life for long enough. I knew I’d never be free until he was gone.
Walking over to one of the armchairs, I quietly removed a single match from the box I’d bought earlier that day. I felt no remorse, no emotion, no regret for what I was about to do.
As I dragged the match down the strip on the side of the box, it burst into a single flame. I took one final look at him before dropping it on the cheap fabric.
I calmly walked out of the back door, locking it as I went. The living room was engulfed in flames by the time I was across the street.
