I’ve recently gotten a new father. I wasn’t adopted, but the man who used to be my dad became Tub Dad. Before I tell you more about him, I should probably explain what happened to my old dad and how I got my new one.
Shortly after I was born, my mother was killed in a gruesome car crash on her way to pick up groceries. My father happened to be watching me that day, and was obviously devastated by such a terrible loss. The grief changed him; he took to blaming me for her death, and reminded me regularly that he wished it had been me instead of her who died that day.
The abuse started rather early on. He used his hand when nothing else was convenient, but also favored whatever was nearby; kitchen knives, t.v. remotes, anything sharp or blunt enough to hurt in response to whatever infraction he felt was deserving of abuse. Something as minor as a missed spot on a dish or a few stray crumbs on the kitchen floor earned a severe beating, with no amount of crying or pleading slowing or halting the onslaught.
As I grew older, the methods became progressively worse and more intense. I got a C on a test once in middle school, so he hooked me up to a modified car battery and shocked me until I nearly died. Baths in bleach, burning, and other such punishments which were tantamount to torture were carefully performed in areas that could be hidden by clothing so no one could ever learn of the abuse. This continued for several years until I decided that I’d had enough.
I couldn’t tolerate any further abuse. My father had to die.
In planning his murder, I considered torturing him the way he tortured me. Not only would this be time consuming and grant him an opportunity to overpower me, but I decided not to do so in the end because I realized that his abuse was ultimately fueled by grief. It didn’t excuse his actions, but I still firmly believe he didn’t do what he did out of a twisted desire to inflict harm. He was sick, incurably so, and I put him down like the sick animal he was.
While he was asleep one night, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and crept into his bedroom. He didn’t secure any sharp objects from me because he knew how afraid of him I was, and it never occurred to him that I would ever actually retaliate against him for all of the abuse he threw at me. Pressing his face against the bed, I sawed at his throat and didn’t stop until I had severed his trachea.
One of the most interesting things about cutting someone’s throat in such a manner is finding out how wrong the movies get it. People don’t gurgle and choke when they’re cut that deep; in fact, they wheeze because they’re frantically trying to breathe through the hole in their neck. It almost sounds like a kazoo, except much more panicked and desperate. As he expired on the bed and went motionless, I didn’t feel remorse for what I did. Instead, I felt a distinct emptiness, a void now that my only other parent was gone. He needed a replacement, so I set about working with what I had to ensure that I still had a father.
Before I got my current father, I tried a few others. Bed Dad wouldn’t work because he would just soak the sheets and mattress, not to mention what would happen if someone looked through his bedroom window and saw his body. I tried Chair Dad, but the only way to keep him from slumping over was duct tape or rope that I knew would eventually become loose; besides, I wanted him to be comfortable. Couch Dad had the same problems as Bed Dad, so I redressed him before I turned him into Tub Dad.
After I laid him in the bathtub and set him upright as best as I could, I smiled at my handiwork. He was dressed in his best black pants, brown and beige argyle dress socks, a white dress shirt, and a autumnally colored sweatshirt that went over it. I neatly combed his hair, and made sure his clothes were clean. His throat oozed out onto his nice shirt, but I could only do so much.
Tub Dad is a far better father than my old one ever was. He always listens, he never abuses me, and he never yells. I have to feed him soup or broth, but it goes down easily enough most of the time. If I press down on his stomach, he wheezes through the open wound in his throat and it’s almost like having a conversation. He’s really starting to smell, but I’d endure anything for Tub Dad. I still remember our most recent conversation.
“Hey, Tub Dad… I met a girl at school today. I asked her out and she said yes, I think you’ll really like her.”
I press down, and a wheeze lazily escapes the wound.
“Well, we’re going to a movie for our first date, but I’ll probably invite her for dinner if things go well.”
Another wheeze.
“Thanks, Tub Dad.”
My old father burned all of his bridges with our family, and he had a habit of disappearing from his job unannounced for days, sometimes weeks at a time. It will be some time before anyone suspects a thing about where he went, if they ever do.
I love Tub Dad.