I'm finally back! It's been awhile since I've posted on here! But I've been working on something.
Here's the preview to a story I've been working on.
Kieran is a killer with a fucked up past and unresolved trauma, caused by his abusive mother who inflicted pain among he and his father
Kieran was sitting in his car, waiting, he had been stalking down someone for a week now. After planning out the perfect kill, the guy was a man, a husband and father...but despite what some people think of him, he is not a perfect, innocent picture perfect father, a loving husband and father to two kids, twins, both four years old, the same age Kieran was when his father 'left' though he knew what really happened...his mother had killed him.
Kieranâs father wasnât perfect, but he was gentle. A quiet man who loved books and music, he often served as Kieran only comfort in a house that echoed with tension. He tried to shield Kieran from her rageâtook the blame when things went missing, stood between them when she lashed out.
But over time, the abuse turned inward too. She would whisper to Kieran, âHeâs weak. Thatâs why youâre broken.â And then she'd scream at her husband for making her a mother, for âruiningâ her body, her life, her dreams.
Eventually, he made a plan: Heâd pack a bag.Take Kieran. Disappear.
He had money saved in a hollowed-out book.
Bus tickets hidden under the floorboard.
He told Kieran in whispers during the nights they couldnât sleep: âOne more week. I promise.â
But she found out. She didnât kill him in a burst of rage.
She waited. Listened. Planned.
And then, one dayâŚhe was gone.
She told Kieran heâd left. Took the money. Took the tickets. Left a note she âthrew away in anger.â Said he never loved either of them enough to stay.
But later that same day, while taking out the trash, Kieran found it:
His father's favorite sweater. Drenched in blood.
Stuffed in the bottom of a garbage bag beneath broken dishes and old mail.
No body. No goodbye. Just a stained, unraveling piece of the only person who ever loved him right.
He didnât say anything at first.
Just stood thereâfour years old, small and shakingâstaring into the garbage bag at the blood-soaked sweater that still smelled like his father. Like coffee and cedarwood and peppermint oil. The sleeves were torn. The neck stretched. She hadnât even bothered to bury it properly.
When he came back inside, dragging the bag with him, she was in the kitchen smoking a cigarette over the sink like she hadnât murdered the only person in the world who loved him.
He dropped the bag at her feet. "Where is he?â he asked.
She didnât answer at firstâjust stared at the blood blooming through the plastic. Then, with that same crooked little smile she wore when she lied to neighbors or gaslit him into forgetting bruises, she said:
âThat? Oh, baby⌠thatâs ketchup. He spilled it. Mustâve thrown it out.â
âYou said he left.â
âHe did.â
âYou said he took his clothes.â
âHe did.â
Daddy said he'd never leave me...he said one more week and we...we'd leave...and he'd take me with him...he promised!...Daddy never lies... never, ever, ever, ever!...
She flinched at the word Daddy like it struck something raw in her. Like it reminded her of the one piece of herself she couldnât control. But she didnât show itânot in any way that mattered. Just smoothed her expression into that awful, empty calm she always wore when she was about to lie.
âOh, sweetheart,â she cooed, crouching slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. Her hands hovered near him like she wanted to touch his cheek but couldnât bring herself to do it. âI know he said that. But sometimes⌠daddies say things they donât mean. To make themselves feel better.â
Kieran shook his head furiously. âNo. No, he meant it. He whispered it every night. He said he had tickets. Said weâd go far away. He promised.â
She clicked her tongue, standing up again with a sigh as though the conversation exhausted her. âAnd he wanted to, baby. He really did. But... he got scared. He realized he wasnât strong enough for this. For us.â
âThatâs not true.â Kieranâs voice cracked. âHe loved me.â
She blew smoke toward the ceiling. âMaybe he did. Maybe thatâs why he left. Because loving you wasnât enough to make him stay.â Her tone turned distant, almost rehearsed. âHe was never good with pressure. Couldnât hold down a job. Couldnât finish anything he started.â
Kieranâs fingers curled into the fabric of the sweater. It was cold and stiff now. The blood had dried thick in places. Still smelled like himâa little. Still his.
âBut he said we were gonna live by the water,â Kieran whispered. âWhere the trees bent low and you could see the stars at night. He said I could have a dog. A big one. And we could name him Jasper.â
Her lip twitched, but it wasnât from emotion. It was annoyance. The lie was slipping again.
âWell,â she said, stubby and short now, âif he wanted all that, he shouldâve stayed. Maybe he found some other kid to lie to instead.â
Kieran blinked. Slowly. His chest was tight in a way he didnât understand yet. A way that would follow him the rest of his life.
ââŚHe said he'd come back.â
She didnât look at him this time. Just turned her back and reached for the bottle under the sink like she always did when she wanted to erase the moment.
And Kieran stood there.
Clutching that ruined sweater like it could make the world make sense. Like it could call his father back. Like maybe if he was good enoughâquiet enough, patient enoughâhis father would walk through the door any minute now, smiling like always, holding two bus tickets and a bag of peppermint candies.
But Kieran never really believed her.
Because if his father really leftâ
then that would mean she won.
And even as a child, Kieran knew:
She didnât deserve to win.
She was unraveling, but she didnât care.
She never thought sheâd have to explain herself to a child.
She thought heâd forget like always.
Thought she could rewrite reality again.
Thought heâd just go to bed.
But he didnât go to bed. He stood there. Staring.
Until something in him broke for good.
That same night. He used a kitchen knife.
had really left, that would mean sheâd won.
And even as a child, Kieran knewâshe didnât deserve to win.
Later that night, he found the same kitchen knife his father used to cut his sandwiches.
He stood in the kitchen long after she passed out, the bottle dangling from her hand, her breathing shallow and ugly.
