"My foster mum and my real mum — together. Where had they known each other? I forced a smile and slid the picture into my pocket.
After preparing dinner, I served the food. My foster father and I ate, chatting idly. For once the air felt almost normal. But then I brought out the photograph and laid it on the table. His face froze, eyes widening. Shock flickered across him before he masked it, but I had already seen. He knew.
"Where did you get that picture?" he asked, voice tight.
"I found it in the house," I said casually. "I thought maybe she was Mum's friend. Maybe we could ask her, if she's with her."
His lips curved, but it wasn't a smile.
"She might be there with her — that is, if she's dead."
My stomach dropped. "What do you mean, Dad?" I pretended.
He tapped the image with one finger, slow and deliberate. .
"She would have been your foster mother now, if not for her stubbornness." His eyes lingered on my mother's face in the photograph, and for a moment, something like anger or hatred passed over him.
Then he pushed back his chair and rose.
"My girl," he said, forcing a yawn, "I have to go and sleep." He said and walk up to his room.
I brought out my knife and watched it glitter under the faint glow of the light. It looked alive, like it was breathing—hungry, thirsty, desperate for blood. I slipped it into my pocket, close enough to feel its weight against me, like a secret heartbeat. My suspicions about those two only grew heavier. I had done justice to one though .There was something foul, something rotten buried between them, and I needed to know.
I stretched myself on the couch, feigning sleep. My body sank into the old cushions, but my mind was circling and waiting. I closed my eyes lightly, memories flooding my head.
The silence broke. A footstep. Careful. Too careful. Whoever it was moved like a predator stalking its prey. My ears strained, every nerve alert. I almost went breathless. Maybe it was the ghost of my unintentional act.
I cracked my eyes open the slightest slit. It was him. My foster father. Creeping, crouched, his face twisted with something I couldn't name—love, lust. His eyes shone faintly in the dim light I had switched to before lying down as he hovered over me.
He reached down, his rough fingers brushing my cheek as though testing if I truly slept. I froze, chest rising slow, pretending the rhythm of sleep.His hand lingered too long. Then, like a starving dog catching scent of meat, he bent close and breathed me in. Sniffing like a pig looking for tortoise grinding stone.His nostrils flared, . My stomach clenched, bile burning my throat.
He slid his arms beneath me, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. His breath was heavy against my neck. I let my head loll, body limp, though my fingers twitched toward the knife. I had master in my head several ways to get him.
He carried me upstairs. The stairs creaked, but he didn't stop. My room swallowed us in darkness when he pushed the door open with his foot. He laid me gently on the bed, almost tender. Almost.
Then came the smile. Crooked, wry, a devilish serpent's smile. He leaned down, pressing his mouth to mine. A kiss. My skin crawled. He rubbed it away with his thumb, as if erasing sin, then did it again. Another kiss. I tried holding the rage within me and made it unseen, unheard in my breath.
My hand inched closer to the dagger hidden under the sheets. But his body blocked the angle—too close, too heavy. Patience. I needed patience.
He fumbled with my trousers, his breathing jagged. And then, a voice boomed and cut it all off
"Dad. What are you doing there? Eric's voice. Sharp. Suspicious.
My foster father flinched as though shot. He whipped his hands back, fumbling, tugging my clothes into place. His voice came out strained, falsely casual.
"Hey, Eric! You're not sleeping?"
Eric stepped inside, his mask gleaming faintly in the half-light. His gaze was steady, piercing.
"What are you doing in her room at this hour?"
My foster father stammered something, then bolted from the room, jittery, his footsteps clattering down the hallway. Eric followed him, slamming the door behind.
I sat up slowly, breath trembling, fingers still curled around the hilt of my knife. My ears strained against the wood of the door.
Their voices clashed, harsh and cutting.
"Dad, you know quite well you're not interested in girls," Eric spat.
"That was the past," my foster father hissed. "Not now."
"Must you destroy everyone's life? That girl is just a child. If you suddenly crave women, go find one outside! Don't drag her into this filth. Mum was enough for you once!" Eric's voice cracked.
"Your mum isn't any better," his father growled. "After birthing you, she lost interest in me, turned to women. And I—I had to use what I had. You. To fill the void."
A heavy silence fell.
Eric's voice broke, ragged. "How did I end up in this cursed family?"
I pressed my forehead against the door, rage boiling through me. Every word seared my skin like fire. This man—this thing—had ruined everything he touched. His wife, his son, and now he dared try to ruin me.
My hand tightened on the knife. My heart whispered promises of blood.And I swore—he would learn a lesson he would never live to forget. Just as I was trying to move back to my bed thinking I had heard enough, I heard a loud shot of words.
"I'm not even your father!"