The Death of John M Sunderland

    The tile was cold and hard. Through the window, just barely visible above the cluttered countertop, a faint tint of lighter blue permeated the black night. The harsh, unforgiving green lines on the microwave declared the hour to be 5:47. Another day was coming.

    Another day to fail everyone.

    Another day to fail himself.

    A rough sob choked him as he tried to curl up tighter on the floor. The letter of rejection in his left hand crunched loudly, prompting violent shakes along his spine. Harvard didn't want him, either. He had applied to them under the basest of terms, begging for a chance to redeem himself using his disabilities as a crutch. But they said;

    "No."

     His weak voice echoed hollowly off of the hard walls. He squeezed his eyes shut against the oncoming wave of misery. Desperately, he clutched at the rosy visions of success as they danced mockingly before his eyes, just out of reach. His family's love and approval, his children's pride, God, his children at all!

     "'I don't need you', she said. 'You never loved me'. She hates you, John."

    "No…!" He whispered, trying to close his ears with his red, throbbing hands. But the voice was inside of him.

    "You can never shut us out. They all hate you, John. They're waiting for you to die."

    "No!" He replied louder, the sound hoarse and dry. Frantically he pushed himself into a sitting position and cowered against the cabinets, bloodshot blue eyes darting fearfully from shadow to shadow.

    "It's her fault, John. She destroyed you. She stole them from you. She makes them hate you."

    His only response was an agonized cry, as more hot tears wet his florid cheeks and his dirty collar. His quivering right hand jerked up to the countertop, scrambling around until it met the cool surface of the picture frame. With a relieved gasp he snatched his and brought it down to eye level.

    It was him. A bright smile greeted his contorted face, dressed in a sharp tux and with all of his teeth. But it wasn't him that he was looking for. It was the small girl with her head on his shoulder, dressed is brilliant red and grinning at the camera, soft brown curls brushing her dimpled cheeks.

    Kyle.
    His daughter.  

    Kyle was fifteen now. Kyle was beautiful, and funny, and brilliant. He knew it, even though he hadn't spoken to her since she was eight. His mother would show him pictures with pity-filled eyes and tell him about all the wonderful things she was doing.

    "She hates you, John. She cried and hid when you sent her that gift. She hates you."

    And her brother. With another jerk, he brought down the picture of a boy. He himself wasn't marring this one. A pale, soft face smiled up at him, clad in the red robe of a choir boy.

    Mark.

    Mark wasn't pale or soft anymore. Mark was a man of nineteen. He had seen him in his pads and uniform, crushing the other team with his stocky build. Mark had let him. Until he'd asked to talk to him. Until he'd sat behind his girlfriend. Then Mark didn't try anymore. Mark told him to leave him alone.

     "He'll kill you, John. You know he could do it. You know he wants to."

    With a third and final jerk, he brought down one more picture and lay it in his lap. All three of them were there. Actually, all four, but the face of his ex had been clumsily removed with a kitchen knife many years ago. His third child stood beside her sister and brother, meeting his eyes with a different sort of intelligence.

    Paige.

    His oldest.

    Paige was special. Paige was autistic. Paige would probably forgive him, if only the others would let her. They surrounded Paige with an impenetrable wall, shielding her from all of his attempts at connection. She was twenty-one, yet they still kept her like a child.

     "They won't even let you have the one you might. They have to take them all."

    Another sob tore through him, and he shoved them back over the countertop as if they had caught fire. He was rocking now, knees drawn up to his chin. Kyle's face, Mark's face, Paige's face, all swam before him as if burned into his retinas. The shadows moved now, stalking him like a cat cornering a mouse.

     "No… no, I don't believe you. I'm not going to listen to you!"

    "But you must, John. Look at your life. It's in shambles, John. Your own flesh and blood would rather die than interact with you. You are nothing but a burden on your family. You can't even get into the disabled program at Harvard. You. Are. WORTHLESS."

    "NO!"

    "No? Then whose fault is it, John? Who brought you here? Who took them all?"

     A wordless whine in response, as tears and spit mingled on his chin. He rocked harder, harder, trying to expel the horrible agony that threatened to tear him apart.

    "Kill her."

     Stillness.

     His eyes flew wide open, staring with awe at the brazen coldness of the idea.

     "Kill her."

     His hand began to inch back up the cabinet door.

    "Kill her."

    His fingers twitched with frenzied emotion.

    "Kill her, John."

    His wet palm slid over the sticky surface, searching.

    "Kill them all."

    At last, he found what he was searching for. He brought it down to eyelevel with a triumphant, crazed grin that showed his broken mouth. The circles under his eyes were soaked in tears that glimmered green in the light of the microwave. The black fringe that remained of his hair fell over his forehead. His eyes, swollen and crisscrossed with scarlet webs, stared up at the water-stained ceiling with determination and ecstasy.

    "NO."

    He brought the orange cylinder to his cracked lips and swallowed every last capsule.

    He slumped to the floor.

    His heart began to slow.

     The hour was 6:02, the Wednesday morning before Father's Day. John M. Sunderland was found dead in his home. The report said suicide. The police were mistaken.

     It was murder.