UnBooks:How I killed my Father

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The novel How I killed my Father is also available in paperback.
I wanted to name the book "Patricide," but the copy editor told me nobody knows what that word means.

I was six years old when he first raped me. We were alone in the house. I had just taken a bath, and was wearing only a towel. My father was in the kitchen, drinking a beer and reading a book. I walked into the kitchen to get some oreos. I was reaching into the cabinet, when my father ripped off my towel. In one smooth motion, he grabbed me and threw me on the table, and before I knew it, I was being fucked in the ass by my own father. I didn't understand why it was happening, or even what was happening.

Never before this had he done anything sexual to me. But from this point on, he continued raping me frequently. By the third time, I had started to enjoy it. Not that I enjoyed his personality.

My father had never been a particularly pleasant man. He [[drank a lot. He regularly beat the shit out of my mother, sometimes right in front of me. If I cried, he would beat me too, and he wouldn't stop beating until I stopped crying, which usually wasn't until one of his blows knocked me unconscious. When I was ten, my mother ran off to maintain her sanity. She didn't contact me again until a decade later. When I was twelve, my sixteen year old brother accidentally got his thirteen year old girlfriend pregnant. He made the mistake of telling my father what happened. I remember the ensuing violence vividly. My father began yelling at him, calling him a pervert and a disgrace to our family. When my brother tried to reply, my father kneed him in the groin. Then he grabbed a lamp from a nearby table, and smashed my brother's head in.

I loved my brother. He was the only one who had the physical strength to stand up to my father. He would occasionally take me out to the local chinese restaurant when he had the money, which was the only time I got to eat at a restaurant, and would beat up kids at school who picked on me. When my mother left, my father thought she had run off with another man. He left for eight months looking for her, leaving the two of us alone. My brother took care of me, fishing through dumpsters to find food, earning money by selling macadamia nuts to junkies and claiming they were crack rocks. He was the closest thing to a real father I had ever had. And now he was dead.

My father stared at the mostly headless corpse for a second, as if he couldn't quite believe what he had just done. I couldn't believe it myself. He snapped out of it quicker than I did. “Bury your worthless brother,” he said. I heard him, but I didn't respond. I kept staring at my brother's corpse in amazement and horror. My father was unsympathetic.“What did I just say, you little shit?!” he yelled, brandishing the lamp menacingly. That time I responded. I grabbed my brother's hands, still dazed by what had just happened, and dragged him to the garden out back. I spent several hours clawing at the dirt, until I had a hole three feet deep, and wide and long enough to fit my brother's corpse into. I didn't get any sleep the next few nights.

I hated that man with every fiber of my being. I couldn't bear to live in a world where he continued to breathe. He had made my life a living hell. He had to die.

When I was twenty-two, I went back to his house, and waited behind the front door with a baseball bat until he came home. He walked in the door about twelve thirty. As he was hanging up his coat, I swung the bat full force at the small of his back. He swore and fell against the wall. I grabbed him by his hair and dragged him into the kitchen. I leaned him up against the stove front and kneed him in the face. His nose and mouth streamed with blood, he was clutching his face in agony. I looked through the drawers until I found what I was looking for: a bread knife. Grabbing his hair, I began to saw at the sides of his face. The skin came off with more difficulty than I expected; It was anchored in dozens of places. Quivering bits of still warm ligament fell to the floor like gelatin. Blood speckled the ceiling on every upstroke. His screams filled my ears. Once his face and scalp were off, I left him on the floor while I went to get a crowbar. When I got back, he was lying fairly still. I grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him into the street. He provided little resistance. His exposed muscle steamed in the cool winter air, illuminated in stark detail under the orange glow of the street light. I pried off the manhole cover, and threw him into the sewer. I heard the scuttling of rats, then his moans turned to screams once more. As I watched the rats devour what was left of his face, I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I had finally done it.

The murder of my father went nothing like this, but its what I told my mother.

Only one thing was left: to tell my mother what I had done. Since he had never been anything but a monster to her, I thought she would be at least relieved to hear about it. I guess I was wrong about that. After I told her, she got scared, and said “you're moving with your auntie and your uncle in Bel Air.” I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said “FRESH” and it had dice in the mirror. If anything, I could say that this cab was rare, but I thought, “nah, forget it, yo holmes, to Bel Air!” I drove up to the house about seven or eight and I yelled to the cabby “yo holmes, smell you later!” I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there, to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel Air.