Four days in, four days with no food, minimal water, and nightmarish living conditions, a hotel was a surprise. Maybe my father had a change of heart? Not likely, but I could hope. Since the day he had me taken, till now, I prayed for death. Please if there is a God in heaven take me. I can’t do this anymore. It’s too hard to live my life in the shadows, fearing every noise that goes unexplained.
“Get in the fucking shower. You got company coming!”
That voice, every time he spoke it was like picking off the first layer of a scab. You pick, stop, pick again, stop, and in the end, it’s ripped clean off and you start all over again. Each time he spoke, my body jolted in fear. I don’t like the unknown. I never have. Always the one with a notebook filled with things that had to be done, surprises scares me.
“Who… who is coming to see me?” fear shook my body to the core. I don’t know how to process this. Was someone coming to hurt me? Help me? Kill me. My brain screaming in the need to know, a hand across my left cheek stopped all the thoughts from being made public.
“Get in the fucking shower now. You will know when it happens. Not until.”
The little junkie scattered around the room like a rabbit needing a carrot, on the bed she had her rig all laid out and ready to go. She wasn’t snorting the drugs. God awful marks made a map all over her flesh. She was shooting up and had no regard for anyone who saw her. Even though I was homeless for 6 months, I never witnessed someone using this drug. It scared me more than I can express.
I never made it to the shower. The door swung open, and my world shattered. It was my father. In the back of my mind, I always knew he was the one who had done this, but you want to hope that you’re wrong. No, you need to hope that you would never have someone in your life that can cause this much harm to you. A daddy is supposed to love his child, protect his child, but mine, he was sick. I remember at that moment my mother telling me that he was ill and she wanted to fix him. No one realized just how sick he really was.
“You! I fucking knew it. I hate you!” the screams came from myself, there was a sudden burst of adrenaline inside, the courage scraped from the bottom of my soul. Without forethought, I charge towards the man who was my father, my hands beating on his chest. No sooner had I made contact than was I pulled back, hands on my back slammed me to the floor.
Every bone in my body ached. The wind taken from my body, a tip of an expensive shoe crashed into my side, forcing cries from my body. Was he honestly going to kill me this way? Why not just a bullet to the back of my head and let me rot in the desert. That was the usual way most died in Las Vegas. Well, that’s what the movies show.
“Get the fuck up off the god damn floor!”
My father, that man who said he loved me, plan on being the one to destroy me. Hadn’t he already? Waking up at eleven to your father taking filthy pictures was just the beginning of the end. Tonight this was all going to end. I’m 18 fucking years old. I should be enjoying my first year of college, falling in love, and getting my heartbroken. Not dying on the floor of some cheap motel in Vegas.
They say when you know you are going to die, that your life plays out before you. It was. Birthday parties, ponies, my grandfather, oh god, he was my hero. Please if there is a god in heaven let me go be with him. He was the only man who ever loved poor little Mary Elizabeth Kennedy. The little girl who lived in that house on the hill. Her own Camelot, with twice the amount of ghosts.
The next 90 seconds was a blur. I won’t even remember any of this other than he told the girl to strip me down to nothing. Not even screams could be found, but something inside snapped. Once on my feet, all I know is there was a gun in my hands, the male and female lay dead on the floor, and my father loomed over me like a tiger claiming his prey. Sounds of gunshots ricocheted through the motel, sirens to follow.
“Please don’t shoot me. I’m Mary Kennedy. I need help!”