September 2022: DEICIDIUM – the act of killing a god - Tee Indawongse

I associate blood with the acrid smell of ozone. The first sign of an imminent storm. My mother says that has always followed me, ever since she fell pregnant. They tried to kill her a dozen times before I even had a heartbeat. Their desperation to kill her then gives me hope I still have a future.

I know my future is marked with more violence. Suffering. Chaos. I’ve heard it described enough times now. Prophetic words. It is an abstract thought, distant like the horizon at the edge of dusk. Can a person be tried and executed before the crime exists even as a thought?

Time travel is a strange paradox. I contemplate it as I sit and watch the moonlight cast silver shadows across the world outside. An illusion of peace. I hear my mother’s laboured uneven breathing behind me. She has lost a lot of blood. Litres. The room feels heavy with it. There is not much to be done though. The wound is too deep.

I hold a hunting knife in my hands. It was my father’s, before they killed him. He died years ago, before we really understood what was happening. He died on his knees, begging for our lives. I finally look back to my mother, her unseeing eyes as she struggles to breathe. There might be a kindness to do something.

I cannot bring myself to move.

Slowly, the breaths become quieter. The bleeding eventually stops. Everything stops.

The carpet is cold and wet against my bare feet. Her eyes are glassy, mirror-like to mine – my father always said I had her eyes. Her eyes, her smile, but my soft heart.

I try to picture his face. It’s hard to remember. I choke on a sob.

I make my way down the stairs to the basement. I smell blood here too, tainted with piss and sweat. My visitor is breathing in desperate gasps. An animal in a trap.

I stop before the person strung up by their arms. I use my knife to tip up their chin and gaze upon the face of someone who by all accounts shouldn’t exist. They look older than me, but I know they are not even born yet. Time travel is a strange beast indeed. I stare deep into defiant eyes brimming with hate. I press the knife a little harder, until I see crimson. Fear creeps into their eyes now. Satisfying.

Not often I get them alive. Cyanide pills. Suicide bombs. A round left in the chamber just for them. This one was overconfident.

“Tell me,” I say, “what horrible things did I do in your time. Tell me what atrocities I did to have a target on my back.” I step closer, startling them into pulling away, but I follow until my lips almost touch their throat. “Tell me, what did I do to the man responsible for killing my mother. What will I do? I would love to ensure this makes the history books.”

By Tee Indawongse.

#RightLeftWrite’s September genre prompt was Sci-Fi.

October’s competition is open now - genre prompt: Horror - and will be guest judged by Geneve Flynn. Submissions of short fiction (max. 500 words) close at the end of the month - submit your entry.

Queensland Writers Centre11 October 2022