by Belinda Roddie
Warm blood dripped from her hands. It felt so right, but his eyes! His cold, accusing eyes! They remained open after she had done the deed - unblinking, unwatering, unyielding in its gaze. He stared right into her! And yet, she had to endure the piercing sensation in her chest, the agony of knowing that he looked at her as she committed the crime - looked at her, glared at her, never crying out despite the frenzied swipes of the blade.
She stood over her father's blank-expressioned corpse with the knife still blanketed with red. The color of his eyes - the color! - blue, like an endless ocean. The ocean she feared, after her old man had dunked her headfirst into the foam. The great unknown engulfing her, salt filling her nostrils, her mouth, her eyes, mingling with her own tears. She had never been able to look him in the eye since then. Twenty years later, she had to get rid of them. Once and for all.
Call it the sequel, or rip-off, of The Tell-Tale Heart. Edgar Allan Poe would be proud. But the eyes stayed open! Frosty, chilled, like the endless sea.she hated. Loathed. Abhorred. They stayed open. Those cold, accusing eyes.
At least she could not hear his heartbeat. That was, perhaps, a small victory.
Callie washed her hands in the sink until they were chafed and raw. And then she fetched the shovel from the garage.
This week's prompt was provided by Matthew Anderson.