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My Mum Michelle

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My real mother died when I was four, so I have lived with my Dad for several years. I know that one day everyone has to move on, but my father was obsessed with trying to contact my mum through mediums. He recently began to talk to thin air, thinking that he was having a conversation with her.

I had been worried about him, he had been getting worse. I thought about getting medical help for him, but every time I brought up the subject of visiting a doctor or going to counselling, he got angry and started drinking heavily until I had to put him to bed.

This changed about a year ago, when he brought a woman home that he had met online. I warned him about the dangers of meeting women online, with all of the catfishing and whatnot. Of course it was great seeing him happy, I just didn't want him to get hurt again. Of course nobody ever listens to the thirteen-year-old girl, because of course, children never know anything, do they? He went ahead with meeting up with her.

She was called Michelle. Funny how that was what my mother was called, I simply thought that it was a coincidence and thought nothing more of it. Through the following weeks, my father seemed like a completely different person, he had laughed for the first time in nine years, so I was happy. Michelle was really nice, and she was teaching me how to play the piano, something that I had always wanted to do. Everything was perfect.

About six months later, they announced that they were to get married. I went shopping with Michelle for her dress and for the bridesmaids' dresses, but something didn't feel right. She came out of the dressing room, knelt down and held my hands. She looked straight into my eyes as she asked me, "Katy, where did your dad get married to your mum?"

I had spent enough time looking at the wedding albums that my dad kept in the attic to know every detail of that precious day, so I told her. She started crying, but when I asked why, she told me she had bad allergies.

About a week before the wedding, I was sent home early from school because I was ill. I walked in through the door and immediately sensed that something was wrong. As I crept up the stairs, I heard muffled shouts coming from my dad's carpentry workshop. The door was open just a crack, so I looked in slowly, my heart feeling as if it was going to burst from my chest.

To this day, I wish that I had never looked into that room, because what I saw still makes me want to throw up my guts. My father had Michelle tied up on his workbench, with a gag over her mouth. He had his back to me but I could still see what he was doing. He began shouting and cursing, his eyes were crazy. "Michelle doesn't have green eyes, she has blue eyes!" He shouted.

Michelle cried in pain as blue paint was poured over her face. Her scalp was red, and most of her hair had been pulled out, whether she did it herself, I don't know. There wasn't much I could do, except for calling the police. My hands trembled as I picked up the phone.

My father was arrested that afternoon. He wanted her to be like Michelle, my mother.

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