Oil Painting

@deadlyolivia13
Why?

I’m going to repost another story I wrote. “For the Best”:

Ever since I was very small, my father always did whatever he though was best for our family. He never asked anyone else, oh no, heaven forbid he ask anyone else’s opinion.
When I was three years old, I had a stuffed rabbit named Beans. I loved that rabbit more than anything else in the world. We’ve never been a very rich family, so I didn’t have many toys, but as long I had Beans, I didn’t care.
And then my baby brother was born.
And if you have a younger sibling, you’ve probably learned that as soon as the little guy is there, boom, you’re old and mature enough to handle anything your parents can throw at you. You’re automatically ready. And so I was suddenly the big sister.
Since he was so young, and needed to be entertained, my father decided he needed a toy. But he couldn’t have any of the old, plastic rubbish that was lying around the house, he might choke. And so my father took Beans.

“It’s for the best,” he told me, as he handed MY special rabbit into my brother’s greedy little hands for him to destroy.

When I was seven, I had a wooden wagon. I had made it myself when we had some extra wood that wouldn’t be useful for anything else. It was just a toy, it was too small to be really useful in carrying anything, but I loved it. It was just so much fun. I gave my little brother rides in it. He still had Beans, but he was nice about it, took good care of the bunny, and even let me play with it sometimes.
But it was still undoubtedly his.
Anyway, back to the wagon. We weren’t very rich, and the heating in our house had given out. We couldn’t afford to fix it. That Winter it was so cold. So very cold. It had snowed so much, and all the trees were frozen and wet, and useless as firewood. But firewood we needed. And so away went my beloved cart.

“It’s for the best,” my father said, as he hacked my wagon to splinters for firewood.

When I was ten, my dog, Bertha, had puppies. She’d been my dog since I was born, and so it was so sad for me when she died having those puppies. I begged my father to let me keep one of the tiny things for my own, they were so small and wouldn’t eat much, what harm could they do? But it was useless. We still had Rufus, my father’s dog, to help with the farm, and he was still young and strong. We didn’t need any whiny pups.

“It’s for the best,” my father sighed, selling each and every one of those puppies to strangers.

When I was thirteen, I heard about a trip to Hawaii that was being offered to our local community, it was pretty selective, only a certain age group could go. But I fit right in with that age group. I wanted to go so bad, you wouldn’t even understand. I’d never been farther than about a hundred or so miles from my own house, and I desperately wanted to see the other parts of the world.
I begged my father to go on that trip. It was surprisingly cheap. We could afford it. But only one of us could go, and my brother wanted to go too. And he always got his way.

“It’s for the best,” my father stated proudly, watching the huge, silver plane that had my brother in it disappear from sight.

He was getting away from this cold, tiny, uneventful little town in the middle of nowhere, and he was going somewhere warm, beautiful, new and so exciting, and I was stuck here in this hell. I had to stay just because I was the big sister, and I could “handle the dissapointments of life.”
And so now, seventeen miserable years later, I’m thirty. My mother is dead and my brother is a successful buisnessman in New York because he got whatever he wanted his whole life.
My father is now a sickly, eighty year old man in a wheelchair, and I’m still stuck in this goddamn town, taking care of him, because he still thinks he knows what he’s doing.
Still thinks he’s in charge.
Last night, I got home, and you know what he’d done? He’d sold my car. The new car I’d only had a month, that I had worked myself to the bone to afford. He sold it because he wanted a new wheelchair, one that didn’t squeak, and didn’t want to sell any of his stupid antiques.

“It’s for the best, Talia,” he said to me, not even looking up from the large wad of bills he was counting.

The wad of bills MY car had gotten him. Those bills were years of MY hard work, and MY saving every extra penny I had. He was counting them with such pleasure. He’s so stingy with money, and when he handles it, it’s disgusting. You can see the lust and desire in his eyes when he looks at it, and he just loves the feel of it in his hands.
I was so angry. I ran up to my room screaming. I’d had enough of this. He’d done this to me my whole life. I broke furniture. I punched the walls ’till my hands bled. I threw whatever I could get my hands on, including my red converse sneakers, which I had wrenched off my feet in rage. I was tearing apart the contents of my closet when something made me stop. I came across something I’d forgotten about entirely.
It was an old cardboard shoebox. I can’t remember how long ago it was I hid it back here, but just looking at it was enough for me to remember what was inside. And to remember that I was the only one who knew it was back here.
Opening the box, I removed the loaded handgun that I had stored back there years ago.
My car was the last straw. I didn’t need any further reason, or any more quiet suggestions. No more hiding this in the back of my mind. The gun provided the opportunity I had been silently and obediently waiting for for so long.
Pulling my shoes back on, I hid the gun in the pocket of my dark gray hoodie, and shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans, I stormed back downstairs.
Stalking into the living room, I was stopped by my father. The wad of bills was nowhere to be seen. He must have hidden it like the tightwad he is.

“So you’re done having your little fit? You’re paying for all that damage you know. And you need to make dinner. Make the potatoes tonight. And be quick, you hear? I’m hungry,” he coughed.

I wasn’t listening. I lunged forward, planting my foot against the heardboard of his wheelchair, just missing his face, and pushing until I knocked the chair on its back.

“Talia, what are you doing?!?” he wheezed, startled.

I pulled the loaded gun out of my pocket and aimed it at his face. A look of terror and sudden understanding crept into his eyes. I smiled coldly, filled with a twisted feeling of joy that he would know why this was happening, even if it was only for moments.

“Don’t worry, father. It’s for the best,” I said as I pulled the trigger.

And so that is the reason for the sirens outside at this ungodly early hour. A passerby must have seen me walking with the body in the wheelchair. I intended to bury both.
I had covered him in a blanket so it would appear that I was just going for a stroll with my father. But maybe they saw the blood on my clothes. I should have changed. Or maybe they were suspicious, and followed me, silently watching me bury him.
But it doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason, they caught me. Maybe some small part of me wants to be caught. I have nothing to live for. I might as well be locked up.
I write this down, so maybe if someone finds it, they’ll know my reasons. But it doesn’t matter, like I said. Nothing matters to me anymore.
I hear echoing requests from policemen with megaphones to come outside with my hands up, they have me surrounded. I plan to obey them. There’s no point in running. I have no one to turn to, and nowhere to go.
I write these final sentences as I walk towards the front door of this darkened house, and I can’t help chuckling. I’m going to jail. It’s funny because I never thought it would end for me like this.
But, I suppose that in the end, it’s all for the best.