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collapsed to the ground, never again to rise from it under
his own power. The creature then bore my progenitor’s limp
body to one of the work benches and laid him on his back.
My new mother turned me again, this time to face the
wall of my father’s tools, all of them barely discernible from
the twisted shadows they cast in the trembling light. “They
all belong to you now, Vincent. You have the remainder of
the night to make your father into that which he was always
meant to be.” I knew almost immediately what I would do.
When I heard the last of my saviors exit at the top of
the stairs, I wasted no time drawing preliminary sketches
for how I would transform my father. It took only a few
hours for me to gather the materials I needed. Next, I began
organizing my workspace. Through all of this, the gaze of
my father never left me. I could see pride welling in his
eyes as I prepared my utensils with the grace and speed of a
seasoned master.
After I pinned the last of my sketches to the wooden
wallboards that lined my work area, I stripped my father
of his clothing and thoroughly washed his body. The only
question remaining was—how should I kill him? Death
was no mercy here, merely a requisite work condition. Any
unwanted movements or mistimed rictuses could ruin the
mood I was attempting to cultivate.
I had no idea how to feel regarding what I was about to
do. My father was always a source of fear and wonder to me.
But my affections always lived in the conjurations, never the
conjurer. I brought him to a seated position, propping him up
against my worktable, looking him in the eyes. He winced for
the first time—and the last. His breath was weak, yet I could
see he was trying to say something. I waited patiently for his
rasping attempts at speech to cohere into intelligible words.
Just before I could wait no longer, he spoke. “A graveyard
with flowers . . . is far better . . . than one without.” I nodded,
and my blade passed through his right eye.

230 | Mark Anzalone