Atanasia

Atanasia

By. Eric Zimmerman

Atanasia watches as her father slowly lifts the crudely carved bone knife above the beaten and bloody form of her unconscious mother. Her mother is tied nude and spread eagled across the small eating table they use for meals on a daily basis. He is dressed in a long black cloak, its hood pulled up over his head; the only flesh that is showing is that of his hands and face, and they are covered with strange black symbols that have never been there before. Both his hands are also covered in blood, both his own and that of his wife and daughter’s, from the continual beating and abuse he has put them through over the past two days.

Atanasia cowers in the corner that her father threw her into, tears flow freely down her freshly bruised and bloody cheeks, she curls herself into a little ball trying to wake up from this nightmare, but knowing that she may never wake to see a sunrise again. She tries to look away from the scene that is slowly unfolding above her, but she cannot pull her nine year old eyes away.

As the knife reaches its zenith, her father starts chanting, strange melodic words with harsh guttural syllables. The chanting starts slowly but increases in cadence and vehemence. Atanasia covers her ears, and as the chanting gets louder she to starts to scream, but her screams are of panic as compared to her fathers scream of ecstasy. Just as she thinks he cannot get any louder, he suddenly stops his screaming. He slowly lowers his gaze to Atanasia, the black hood slips off his head revealing a fresh and crudely shaven head, the same black symbols covering it completely. As he stares at the frightened form of his young daughter his mouth splits into a grin.

“I love you sweetie” he says, then he plunges the knife down into his wife’s chest, blood spurts up and covers his hands, face and clothing. Her mother wakes violently and screams out in agony. The father grins and licks the fresh blood from his lips, still staring down at his daughter. He rips the knife out of the writhing body, blood following the knife out and spattering the table, the floor, and the walls. He plunges it again as she thrashes against the bindings, her arms and legs kicking violently, her head thrashing about in pain. The knife comes out again, and again he plunges the gore covered blade into her writhing body. Her mother thrashes about so violently she severely dislocates her right shoulder, making her arm twist in the bindings at an extreme and awkward angle, making the traumatic scene even worse. He continues ripping and plunging the blade in and out of the body, over and over, spraying blood and gore all about the small hovel, and creating a pool of blood, bodily fluids and gore on the floor under the table. Eventually the knife plunges down into only the wooden plank of the table, as there is nothing left of the midsection of the dissected body, but he continues stabbing down into the wooden table, only stopping when the blade gets stuck in the table and gets wrenched from his blood slickened hands.
Throughout the eternity of the violence his gaze never wavers from his daughter, the grin never leaving his blood covered face.

Atanasia, still curled into a ball in the corner continues screaming, but her throat is so raw that no sound escapes. She continues staring into the eyes of the man that used to be her father, the man that used to be the loving caring provider of their little family. Now he’s covered in the dripping blood and gore of her mother, his grin still in place, his unblinking eyes seeming to be twice the size of normal, still staring at her, never wavering. As he turns and slowly approaches her, she squeezes her eyes shut, puts her head down to her knees and squeezes herself even tighter. She knows she’s going to die.
He walks up and stands over her, towering over her small form staring down at her knowing what he must do, he has to kill her, after all that’s what the Devil told him to do. He reaches down to grab his daughter, to strangle the life out of her with his bare hands. Just as the blood covered flesh of his rough hands graze against the soft pale skin of her neck both of their bodies are jolted by some unknown release of energy. He stands there, his hands just barely touching her, trying to catch his breath, trying to wake up, his vision slowly coming into focus as if waking from a bad nightmare. He looks down at her confused and disoriented and sees that Atanasia has raised her head and now stares back at him, and for the first time since the attack began the grin leaves his face. There is an odd look in her eyes, the fear that has been there all along is gone, and it is replaced by something else, by something that scares him.
Atanasia slowly uncoils herself from the ball she has curled herself into. As she slowly stands her father drops his arms and takes a step back, making sure not to touch his daughter. The tears that have been flowing freely down her face have stopped; she just doesn’t feel like crying anymore.
She stands up straight and looks up into his face, into his eyes. His eyes no longer hold anger, but now hold fear, the same fear that she had in hers. As she steps forward he takes a stumbling step back, then another. He stumbles into the table that contains what is left of her mother, his hand instinctively reaching out to keep from falling grabs on to the cold piece of meat that used to be her mothers leg. He screams and falls to his knees. She walks up to stand right before him, now she towers over him. As she stands there looking down at him tears start streaming down his blood covered cheeks and he starts to sob, whimpering out loud in fear and grief.
As Atanasia watches this a small grin spreads across her face and she says, “I love you to papa…”