I clenched my hands into fists. She would pay for this. She would pay the ultimate price. And I would be there to collect. I slept on the floor with my father, thinking...If only things had gone differently. I coud have been there. I could have saved him. And he would not have died with me feeling nothing but anger for him.
I found my father's knife and strapped it into my belt. I left the house and proceeded to the edge of town, where I prepared a grave. But then, I thought: perhaps he should stay with me? I could give him the memories he should have left this world with.
I shook my head vigorously. No, I was thinking like a maniac. That was insane. I would live with his memory, and do honor to his spirit. I would live alongside his spirit, but the body need not be around, rotting and stinking. Better it be preserved.
I returned to the house and labored to build a casket - a proper one - for him to be buried in. When at last I finished my hard work, it was early the next morning. I carried my father, dressed in his finest clothes, to the casket and lowered him into it alone. I placed a mask over his face, one that seemed fitting: it looked as though it knew the many sorrows of the world. I could not bare to look at his mutilated face, destroyed by the multitude of lacerations made across his face, along with the ones covering the rest of his body.
I then covered my face in a matching mask, for I could not bare for him to look at me, in all my twisted rage. It had been a long time coming, and finally a dam had broken deep inside me. I felt that a vital part of me had died and now I could never be the same again. I would always be broken.
I buried my father at approximately five o'clock in the afternoon. It was a short funeral. I had nothing more to do than to lower his casket into his grave, straining every single muscle in my body, and say a few words of little comfort to myself.
I ate no dinner, and the following day, no breakfast. At this point, I began to grow very weak, but i cared little for my own health anymore. then, another day later, a friend visited and told me that Elizabeth had left and where she intended to go. She said that she had been with a man, and had seemed in quite a hurry. I thanked her for the infomation, informed her of the tragedy which had occurred, and departed, the mask still upon my face and the knife still on my belt. I had sworn to my father that she would pay. Now, she would be just as broken as me.