Warning Signs

 So, this is a story I wrote for a fiction writing class in early 2020. I figured this blog was a good place to post this story. 

Warning Signs

“I found him like that.” 

The man looked at his daughter, a little bit confused. She looked back at him with her gigantic green eyes. Had it not been for the mud and dirt all over her, he might have thought she looked like a doll. It seemed like the dirt that smothered her covered her natural perfection. When he looked at her, he felt as though he was looking into her mother’s eyes. His attention reverted back to Whiskers, her pet hamster, and then back to his daughter once again. He wasn’t entirely sure how to take these particular words. She almost sounded like she was telling him the truth. Finally, something escaped his mouth. 

“What were you doing with him?”

At first glance, a moment like this wouldn’t raise any alarms. It was common for a child to want to bury their pet after they discover it dead. But, it was the exact nature of the hamster’s death that caused the man some level of concern. Had the death appeared natural, the man most likely wouldn’t have been in this situation with his daughter. Yet, the hamster had dried clumps of blood mixed in with the rest of his hairy, brown and white body. That was the concerning part to him.  

 “I told you daddy,” the girl started. “I found him like that. It made me sad, so I buried him.” 

This time, there were no words that he could think of. Her tone almost sounded honest. Yet, something seemed off to him. He couldn’t find any emotion in her voice.

“But, that’s crazy.” 

“What’s crazy, daddy?” 

The man turned his back to his daughter. He hadn’t even intended to say something out loud. This was a very serious red flag. 

“Can I go play now?” Her big eyes somehow grew even bigger as she asked. If he didn’t know any better, he might have guessed that she was trying to manipulate him. It was possible because most children knew this tactic better than any other tactic.  

“Yes,” he told her without even thinking. He quickly buried the hamster again. He turned to watch his little girl run inside, her crimson ponytail swaying back and forth as she did. The death of Whiskers made him slightly suspicious, but he felt inclined to give his daughter the benefit of the doubt. He may have been skeptical of her honesty, but he also didn’t think that an eight-year-old could pose a threat, at least not a serious one. He gave one last glance at the hole in the ground that was now home for Whiskers the hamster. Before making his way toward the house, he scratched his head. These past few moments were so confusing to him. Maybe this was a part of having a child, though. Nobody had ever said it was going to be easy, especially for a single father. His own hair had strands of gray sprinkled in a sea of brown. Any other parent might think that this could come from the stress of raising a child. 

This was not the case for him. He started seeing gray hair pop up when he was in his early 20s. He had been 30 when his daughter was born. He was thirty-eight now, and he took the stress of raising his child alone in stride. Part of him wondered if God had wanted his daughter to look like her mother.  

He trudged his way inside the house. He looked down and sighed. How many times had he asked her to take her shoes off right away? He had seen a trail of muddy footprints leading from the back door to the upstairs, most likely leading to his daughter’s bedroom. Their home wasn’t much really. They had an upstairs, yes. That didn’t mean anything because there were only six steps that led from the main floor to the upstairs. They didn’t have a basement. The back door led directly into the kitchen. The front door led into their living room. The living room had an off-shoot with two other rooms, a laundry room and a bathroom. The upstairs contained three rooms. Two of them were bedrooms along a middling-sized hallway. Each bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall. Directly in the middle was a second bathroom. Had somebody seen their house with one glance, they most likely wouldn’t have assumed anything. It would have looked like any other typical suburban home in the Midwest   

Two weeks later, his cellphone rang. 

“Mr. Michaels,” the voice began, “This is Mr. Marshall.” 

“Okay,” Mr. Michaels replied, some confusion in his voice. Almost immediately, he was unsure as to why he was being called. 

“Can we talk face to face?”

“Um sure,” Mr. Michaels answered, still unsure about why this conversation was going to happen. “Do you want me to come in and talk with you tomorrow?” 

“Actually, I would like to talk to you today.” 

Mr. Michaels simply sighed, and said “Okay.” Mr. Michaels hung up the phone and made a movement with hands that had mimed pulling his hair out. Even to him, this was a strange reaction. The phone call from Steven Marshall, his daughter’s principal concerned him more than it made him angry. Maybe his anger was intended to be directed inwards, and this was way of processing. Or, in slightly simpler terms, he was just mad at himself. He threw his head down for a moment in, for lack of a better word, defeat, and walked to his car, a 1966 Chevy Impala. He had always something of a thing for American Muscle. All at once, the drive simultaneously felt incredibly long and incredibly short. For the briefest of moments, Mr. Michaels was reminded of Whiskers the hamster. He pushed the thought out of his mind. This is not the time to be thinking of Whiskers, he thought to himself. Carly needed to be his primary concern, not her dead pet buried in the backyard. He had arrived at the school, not sure what to expect, but he had assumed the conversation that lay ahead couldn’t be that bad. While he didn’t fully believe it, he did have something of a worry that his daughter was in trouble somehow. He didn’t want to think about this possibility, whether he truly believed it was there or not. 

When he entered the principal’s office and sat down, he felt slightly uncomfortable. He couldn’t even explain why, but he did. 

“How has Carly’s home life been?” The question threw Mr. Michaels off. Mr. Michaels had been up front about things with the school principal. Carly was barely even a couple of months old when her mother, his wife, had passed away. It had always been Mr. Michaels and his daughter. Besides, the man had been Carly’s principal ever since she was in kindergarten. This man, of all people, should have known that Carly had always been a happy, well-adjusted girl. Her life had been as normal as it could possibly be.

“May I ask why.” The principal handed him a file. When he saw the drawings, he understood. He flipped through drawings that depicted various forms of murder. There was one drawing in particular he found curious. This drawing was one of the dead Whiskers.

“I mean,” Mr. Michaels started. “Her pet hamster did die recently. I don’t know if this really means anything.” 

“James,” Mr. Marshall said in response, somewhat disappointed. 

“Besides,” James Michaels continued. “Kids will draw weird things sometimes.”  

“It might be a good idea for Carly to see a professional.” Finally, Mr. Michaels didn’t say anything. After all, what could he say? Even he could admit that there was a possibility he was in denial. No matter what, he wasn’t exactly helping the situation. Part of him believed this could have been a good idea, but there was also part of him that wanted to shout that the principal was wrong. He was sure this was a reaction any father would have in a situation like the one he was in. No parent wanted to believe there was a possibility their child would need psychological help, on any level. What might have made this worse for James Michaels was that he and Steven Marshall knew each other for years beyond that. The two graduated high school together. This was the hardest moment for him to begin to face, or so he thought. 

“For now, I am suspending her.” Mr. Michaels simply nodded. He completely understood this response. Mr. Marshall fumbled for the speaker. 

“Carly Michaels,” Mr. Marshall spoke into the PA system. “Can you come to the principal’s office?” 

Before too long, Carly walked into the office. This was the moment he really began to pay attention. He watched how his little girl acted throughout her whole conversation with her principal. The entire time, her face was blank. She nodded, claiming to understand everything Mr. Marshall was saying. The whole time, Mr. Michaels couldn’t help but see how cold she was. Mr. Michaels was becoming legitimately scared. 

As he walked with her, he was beginning to see his little girl in a new light, a light he wasn’t sure he liked. He was also beginning to see her elementary school in a new light. When he had first walked into the school, it had seemed as cheerful as an elementary school should be. Now that things were beginning to appear differently to him, the same hallways now just looked depressing. 

The car ride home felt unbelievably awkward. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t entirely know what was going to come out of Carly’s mouth, or if he could trust it. Carly wasn’t exactly in a talkative mood herself. Carly actually conversed with her father less and less following the hamster’s death. 

That night, Mr. Michaels laid in bed, still thinking about what happened over the past couple of weeks. He didn’t sleep at all. Was he beginning to understand things about his daughter? Was he really just making excuses for her actions? Her behavior was getting weirder over these past couple of weeks. He had thought nothing of it at first. Not too long before Whiskers had died, the neighbor’s dog Spike had seemingly run away. Now, he began to wonder if Spike had truly run off, or if something else had happened. Once again, he made a conscious decision. He would try to give his daughter the benefit of the doubt once more. He didn’t believe the “evidence” he was being presented with was truly concrete enough for him to make such a rash conclusion about the only family he had left.

This is the decision he would come to regret the most. A couple of years had gone by, five to be exact, which is why he felt as though he needn’t be too alarmed by his daughter’s continuous behavior. After her brief suspension when she was in elementary school, that initial behavior that worried him seemed to stop. He didn’t even have to cave, and make her see a professional, like her elementary school principal had requested.  

Once again, Mr. Michaels was alerted by a phone call. 

“Daddy,” Carly started. “I need help.” Mr. Michaels was alarmed again. Carly showed no real emotion when she spoke. 

“What happened?” 

“There was an accident during gym class,” she said, still emotionless. There was a part of him that thought perhaps this was not the case at all. I am talking with her over the phone, after all. 

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the police station.” 

He hung up the phone, and ran to his car. He felt more urgency today, knowing that his daughter was in serious trouble. That was perhaps the biggest difference between the situation he was placed in today and that day she was suspended some five years ago. Today, he was sure she was in trouble. Five years ago, he didn’t. As he drove like a maniac, he began to wonder just how much blame should have been placed on him. His head reeled even more than it ever had in the past. There was also an anger there. He didn’t really know where “there” was, but he knew it existed. He should have taken action much earlier, but he chose to ignore the signs he had clearly seen. Finally, he had arrived at his destination. 

He ran inside, and immediately asked the first cop he saw where his daughter was. 

“She’s being questioned,” the cop answered. “You can wait right there.” The cop gestured to a bench area with his hand. 

“What happened?” The cop looked at him. 

“I’ve told you everything I know,” this cop answered, a little annoyed. Both of them had to believe they were in the right. Mr. Michaels was worried about his daughter. All he knew at the moment was that she was at the police station. This cop probably felt as though he was in the right because Mr. Michaels didn’t want to believe a word this cop was saying. He was far too anxious to think about anything besides this one thing. Mr. Michaels did hope that this particular officer might understand that, at least.

“You can have a seat, and somebody will bring your daughter out.” The cop gestured toward that bench area, a little more aggressively this time. Perhaps Mr. Michaels had made the wrong assumption about this one officer. 

He really didn’t like this. He was anxious enough already, he felt, and forcing him to wait was just making everything that much worse. This just made the wait feel that much longer.

Finally, after what must have been hours (in reality, it was only about 20 minutes), another cop came out, escorting Carly, her head down, and her hands in her pockets, with her bright pink backpack slung over her left shoulder. 

“I’m detective Andrews,” this other cop said to Mr. Michaels. “There seemed to be an accident at your daughter’s middle school.” 

“What kind of accident?” 

“It appears as though a student committed suicide in the girls’ locker room. Your daughter isn’t under arrest.” 

“So why were you questioning her?” 

“It appears as though your daughter found the victim’s body.”

“Shouldn’t you have asked for my permission first?” Detective Andrews did not answer this question, but looked at James Michaels. As if that had been bad enough, Mr. Michaels did not like the smell permeating from the detective’s breath, which came off a mix of cheap alcohol and even cheaper cigarettes. 

“We’re just trying to understand the situation.”

“What do you mean?” Detective Andrews told him that one of Carly’s classmates had cut her wrists with a broken shard of glass, something she must have carried with her, and could have gotten away with because the school didn’t exactly have the strongest security.   

Mr. Michaels looked at the man, unsure if this detective Andrews truly suspected that Carly was involved somehow, or if this really just Mr. Michaels projecting his own feelings and suspicions.

“Can I take my daughter home?”

“Yes, of course.” There was a slight pause before Andrews answered this question, almost as though he didn’t really understand why this question was being asked. Mr. Michaels didn’t know where this potential lack of understanding came from. Was it because this detective genuinely did not want to let Carly go, or did he just find the question stupid because the answer was obviously going to be yes. However, there was also something he was sure must have been relief. Maybe he had actually been wrong the whole time. Maybe these things that he thought were warning signs were all beginning to turn out to be strange coincidences. 

Mr. Michaels didn’t know why, but the walk from the police station to the car felt long to him in this moment, longer than when his daughter had been suspended for her disturbing drawings. It didn’t help that this car ride was just as awkward. Of course, this time, he found it easy to understand the lack of communication. Carly wasn’t eight anymore. She was thirteen now, a teenager. And yet, there were still so many questions that he had. He didn’t ask them. He knew it wasn’t the right time when she was eight, and he didn’t believe it was the right time now. Just remember, he told himself in his head, it’s all going to turn out to be fine. Carly was still holding her bright-pink backpack, now in her lap.

He had actually remembered the day he took her to get a new one. Initially, she had seemed attached to her old, ratty blue one. It served its purpose from the time she was five until she was ten. One zipper had broken off, and the other had gotten stuck at a point. Her first reaction was to throw a fit. As he thought about it now, this seemed uncharacteristic for her. Even before she had displayed her strange behavior, she had never been one to fuss. He had practically had to drag her to the store. 

It was a family owned place that shut down a couple of months later. They were there for maybe five minutes at most before she found the pink one.

“I like this one,” she said in a tone that almost sounded like she was trying way too hard to be happy. He didn’t think anything about this because she wasn’t acting like a stone wall, and that was all he could have asked for in that moment. She had gone on to say that she liked one of the extra pockets because it was sort of a secret.

They had arrived home. 

“I think I’m going to go put pajamas on.”

“Um, okay.” Her reaction seemed out of place to him, but he didn’t really give it a second thought. If anything, he assumed she was in shock. Being questioned by the police after her classmate committed suicide must have been a difficult day.  

Before making her trek upstairs, she turned around and faced, saying one more thing. 

“Don’t worry, daddy. They didn’t look in my backpack.” He wondered why she felt like that was important to say. The detective with cheap whiskey breath did tell him she wasn’t in trouble. Maybe this was her way of trying to comfort him. Still, this told him he probably should look through her backpack. He waited until he heard Carly’s bedroom door close.  

This was the moment, he had to be sure. He didn’t have to look through the back for very long. His first instinct was to look in that well-hidden pocket that only he and Carly knew about. Almost immediately, he came face to face with the horrible realization he had refused to see for the past five years. He lifted the item out of his daughter’s backpack. It was a bloody knife. The knife felt sticky to him. Was blood supposed to feel this way? If that was the case, it wasn’t what he imagined. He knew that Whiskers the hamster had blood on him, but he didn’t remember Whiskers feeling that way. Perhaps it was something he had blocked out. Why would he want to remember something like that? 

He looked up to see Carly at the top of the stairs, staring back at him. He was so transfixed on the fact he found the knife. The father and daughter stared at one another. Finally, the question came out, the one that had been nagging at the back of his mind for five years now. 

“Carly.”

“Yes, daddy?” 

“Did you kill Whiskers?”

“Yes, daddy.” 

“Did that girl really commit suicide today?” 

 “No, daddy.” He knew the answer to this question, and yet the answer still stung. He knew exactly why too. The warning signs were there from the beginning, and he had continuously chosen to ignore them. But, how could he ignore them anymore. 

“I just have one last question kiddo.” 

She replied with the blank expression he had once come to know. It was all too clear. The expressions she made were definitely for show. 

“Why did you do it?” Carly looked at her father and shrugged. 

“I just wanted to,” she said. He looked at her dumbfounded. That wasn’t even remotely the reaction he had expected her to give. This was the first time in a long he had also felt she was truly honest. He almost felt sick, and yet he was too far in shock to even think about throwing up, or being sick in general. There was something more to this feeling too. He understood it all too well. He no longer knew if the girl standing at the top of the stairs even was his daughter. Sure, she looked like Carly. Was she though? He couldn’t even see the eyes of the woman he had fallen in love and married anymore. Those big, green eyes looked sullen and hollow now. He saw an empty husk now. It had grown tougher and tougher for him to even see a human being standing in front of him. 

He thought back to the day she killed Whiskers. He thought back to Carly looking up at him, perfect save for the dirt and mud all over her face and clothes. He now thought of that dirt and mud as her true nature showing instead of the perfection she showed the world. She looked like a doll because that was how she wanted people to see her, he knew that now. He should have known the whole time. He just wouldn’t acknowledge this for so long. Even the way she had called him daddy made sense to him now. It had always been a part of the act. How had things changed so much in such a short amount of time, he had to wonder to himself. 

“Go to bed,” was all he could say at the moment. Then, Carly responded with something he was almost sure had to be genuine emotion, something he hadn’t seen or heard from her in a very long time. He was just as surprised by his own response. he wasn’t angry at all.  

“You’re not mad at me?” She seemed genuinely confused. Then again, maybe she was just that good of an actress.

“Of course not,” he answered. He watched as she turned around. This was the most difficult decision he was ever going to make. She had killed somebody purely because she felt like it, and he had fostered this because he had ignored everything. If she had done it once, she would definitely do it again. One thing scared him even more than the idea that his thirteen-year-old daughter killed a classmate for pleasure, something that chilled him to his very core, and may have slowed his heart down. His child, Carly Michaels, was intelligent enough to cover her tracks. It was obvious now. She had known how to do so ever since she killed her pet hamster. He stood still, listening and waiting for the most important noise. He needed to hear her close her bedroom door again, which she eventually did. He breathed a sigh of relief. This was a sign that she still trusted him. He knew what needed to happen now. In one hand, he held his cellphone. In the other hand, he held the bloody knife. He couldn’t allow Carly to hurt people anymore.