Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

fed those two needs. The lore that surrounds him now, the mythical status he has created for himself, I think that has fed his need for the last twenty years. I think that’s why he hasn’t killed again. Not because I escaped and ruined everything, but because he was already getting what he wanted even though he wasn’t killing anymore. By never being caught, he has controlled the narrative, and he is still feared.

But if that ever stops, if he ever feels like his work or his legacy is being challenged, he will come back. And if he does, it will get so, so much worse.

26

DJ

1978

Every part of the house was spotless.

It was a Saturday in late September, more than two months since his brothers had died, and the layers of grief and grime spread throughout the house had been visible in every room he entered. While his father was away fishing, DJ threw open the windows to let in the mulch-laced autumn breeze while he swept and vacuumed the floors. He filled a bucket with hot, soapy water and got down on his knees to scrub the linoleum. DJ even used an old toothbrush to clean out all the grooves and dents that filled with extra dirt. It took six hours to wash every item of clothing and bedding in the house and hang it out to snap on the clothesline.

Now the house was clean, filled with the scent of sun-kissed linen and glossy wood. He sat on the front steps, waiting for Josiah to come home. His fingers were red, slightly burnt from the harsh chemicals he’d used to strip the bathtub of months of soap scum and mildew. There had been no rubber gloves under the sink when he looked, so he’d borne the pain, dipping his hands into the bucket over and over to refresh his sponge. His body throbbed, but the tub sparkled.

It was nearly dark by the time Josiah pulled into the driveway, his red truck jolting to a stop at a sloppy angle. The parking brake screeched in protest when he set it. DJ stood, pressing the front of his pants down to get rid of any creases from sitting so long. He had even dressed up, putting on his nice church slacks and a button-up shirt—a “child choker” his brother used to call it, tugging at the collar when he was forced to do up the top button for Easter Mass.

Josiah flung open the door of his truck and heaved himself out onto the driveway. DJ watched as he shuffled around to the back and retrieved a large white pail. It was only when Josiah was halfway up the sidewalk that he noticed his son on the steps, waiting for him.

“What’re you doing here?” Josiah asked, his voice slurring. His gaze focused somewhere to the right of DJ’s face. He hadn’t looked his son in the eye since that night two months ago when he had beaten him. He hadn’t touched DJ since, either in affection or anger.

After a moment, he held the pail out to his son. “Never mind. Take these to the shed and clean ’em, like I taught you.”

DJ took the pail, the thin metal handle biting into his sore fingers as he carried it back to the shed. When he got to the table his father had set up specifically for fish cleaning, DJ looked down at his shirt. He couldn’t risk getting fish guts and scales on this, but he couldn’t go inside empty-handed. It was still warm, even more so in the shed away from the cool night breeze. Not knowing what else to do, he stripped off his shirt and trousers and hung them over a hook on the door. Then he opened the pail and pulled out the first fish.

He put his index finger slightly inside the walleye’s mouth to hold it steady before poking the pointy end of the knife in just at the edge of the cheeks. The glassy dead eye stared up at him. His father had taught him to always remove the cheeks first, the best part of the walleye, to make sure he wouldn’t forget later. DJ traced the circumference of the cheek with the blade until he had gone all the way around it. Then he pushed his finger under the broken skin and peeled the meat away, setting it aside. Moving the fin, DJ sliced into the side and then up next to the backbone, his knife vibrating against the bone as he slid it under the flesh from head to tail. Once he had a good fillet, he flipped it over and repeated on the other side before pulling the chunks of meat off both. He discarded the first fish carcass in the garbage can by the workstation and pulled out another, blinking away the exhaustion in his eyes.

By the time he was finished with all seven fish, DJ’s chest, arms, and hands were flecked with scales and blood. He had a few nicks and cuts on his fingers, but he had a plate full of the most beautiful fillets he’d ever cut, so he walked into the kitchen through the back door with his head high. Finally, he’d get to see how his dad felt about the clean house.

When he got inside, Josiah was sitting at the kitchen table, beer in hand and hair wet from a shower. DJ put the fillets in the fridge and went to the sink, where he splashed water and soap up his arms. He dried himself off with a towel before turning around to see his father regarding him with the bottle raised to his lips.

Josiah took a long drink. After he set the bottle on the table, he looked DJ up and down. “Happened to your clothes?”

“Didn’t want them to get dirty.”

“So, you just left your Sunday best on the floor of the shed?”

DJ shook his head. “No, sir. I hung them on the