Psych

1. Sineas Murphy

Fireworks. Fireworks? Yes, that is what it sounded like. Fireworks. The sound was ear-splitting. Like a knife in the ear. Except, these were not fireworks. The Iver Johnson Revolver had finally served its purpose. Breechwood was one of the most serene neighbourhoods in the city. There had been no murder or suicide for the past thirty-eight years. Until now. The Murphy family was known to be one of the most peaceful families, so what had triggered this unforeseen calamity? It was like discovering a gun in the holiest church you could think of. 

With tears in his eyes, Sineas Murphy, the only child in the Murphy family, stood a few feet from the fresh corpse of his father. The blood flowing smoothly from the right side of his father’s head and the revolver still clasped loosely in his right hand. Sineas could not stop whimpering. This was too vexing a sight to register for a six year old. The blood though was too hard to see as it dripped onto the red carpet. The carpet was an abyss, drinking each drop granted it.

From the carpet to the furniture in the room was just pure innocence. His father’s head was on a glass table about knee high, his knees planted on the floor. He was bent over by the foot of a black couch. The only couch in the room. A small television set a few feet to Sineas' left was probably the only source of entertainment in the house. No decorations on the wall. The room could have served best as a storage room. Just behind Sineas was the entrance to the kitchen, beside it- the wooden door which led outside. Inside the glass ashtray lying beside his father’s head, a cigarette was slowly dying, smoke leisurely spiraling from its lit end as if mourning its owner’s death. Sineas was not the only one frozen in that moment. The air was tranquil, as if this event had shocked it to a standstill. Not a single sound could be heard for miles. Not even the harmless sound of an annoying dog barking. At least a sign of life, but there was none. Just the chilling silence. 

Sineas wiped his left cheek free of an overflowing current of tears as he approached his father’s lifeless body. His young eyes danced between the gun and the obtrusive gash in his father’s head. The tears ran on down his face. He fell down onto his knees and reached for his father’s hand, the one that held the pistol. He poked one of his fingers, the same that held the gun. He looked into his wide open eyes. ‘Games, papa…games…’

‘Abraham! Abe! Abe!’ Sineas’ mother barged through the door only to find Abraham, her boyfriend, dead on the floor and her son, Sineas kneeling before his corpse. She was still in her doctor’s uniform: a white lab coat over a white blouse and a short, black skirt that ended just above her knees. She had a short afro, which was a typical hairstyle for most of the black people in Breechwood. She had a certain sagging below her eyes which blamed nightshifts, a slightly light skin tone pointed to a genetic trait; Something she must have passed on to Sineas. She worked at one of the local hospitals. 

‘Abe!’ she yelled once more as she ran towards him.

‘That won’t work,’ Sineas told her when she tried shaking him back to life.

She stared into Sineas’ eyes. The tears were now drying on his cheeks. ‘Oh, Sin!’ She cupped her hands over her mouth before embracing him tightly. ‘Oh, Sin, my son I am so sorry! It’s okay. Papa is just sleeping.’ She grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer to his father. ‘Look! See? Say, “hello, papa”.’

‘…Hello, papa.’ He only obeyed but he looked more confused than ever.

She laughed and she squeezed on his wrist and pulled him closer. ‘Say it louder or else papa won’t hear you.’

‘Hello, papa,’ he whispered again.

Without warning, she struck his mouth hard with the back of her hand. ‘I said, say it louder!’ Her face had changed from gentle to murderous in just a split-second.

He began to weep again. ‘Mama, that hurt.’

‘Oh, it did, did it?!’ In a flash, she got up and grabbed him by the hair and began pulling it, using it as a handle to lift him off the ground. ‘I said say, “hello, papa”!’  she ordered him.

The child’s screams were deafening. ‘Hello, papa!!!’ he wailed. His screams muffled his words.

She threw him onto the couch behind his father like an empty grocery bag. She pulled the thick leather belt from her boyfriends waist. ‘Do you want me to use this?!’ she said as she waved the weapon in his direction.

He shook his head profusely and retreated into the corner of the couch using his tiny hands.

She roared angrily as she stared at him. Her eyes were blood-red. A nasty colour. Either from anger or grief it was hard to tell for a six year old. ‘…Then say, “hello, papa”…much, much louder.’

He drew his knees to his chin in deep fear. He looked once at his father and then her. He whispered, ‘Hello... papa.’

She advanced towards him.

Someone suddenly barged through the door. ‘Priscilla!’ It was her sister, Janice. She pushed her to the ground then she snatched the belt from her hand. She immediately rushed to her nephew’s aid. She was in her red velvet blouse and black jeans. Her hair was in braids. Quite an innocent look if not for her hardened face. She had a rather short nose and perky lips which would scare away any would-be rapists.

Sineas was trembling in fear, his skinny arms still wrapped around his knees.

Janice protectively draped her arm around him. ‘Priscilla, what has gotten into you? This is your son!’

She now had her back against the foot of the couch, sitting right beside her boyfriend. She was weeping uncontrollably. Her cries were in gasps. She was fatigued. She could not answer with a word but only streams of tears flowing down both her cheeks.

‘Priscilla, your son is watching. You should be strong…for him.’ Janice had not even once looked at Abraham’s corpse.

She laid her head back as she continued to cry. ‘I don’t have a son.’