They say when you take a life, you carry that life with you until the day you die.

I've read some interviews (watched Youtube videos) with murderers doing life in prison, and they all say the same thing. Some variation of, "whenever I close my eyes, I see my victim's face."

The thing about murderers is that, unless they're in an orange jumpsuit or on wanted posters, you don't know their secret—that they've killed. Imagine if you could know... Imagine if you could see a number floating above someone's head telling you exactly how many people they've killed. Your neighbors, your grocery clerks, your coworkers, your partner...

What would you do if there was a kill count floating above their head? If you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they've taken a life. Or more...

Me? I stay clear of them. What else can I do?

But sometimes, there is no staying clear.

***

"Are you sure you've got this?" Karla, my wife asked. She was standing in the front door of our house, rolling luggage at her feet, thermos of Brazilian Bold in her fist. She was—is the love of my life—and her knowing about my...ability, and accepting me nonetheless, is a big part of my loving her. She's also a total babe. And...the mother of our five-year-old, Jake. "It's not too late to call the babysitter. Please tell me you've got this."

"You know," I said, shoving my hands into my Jedi bathrobe pockets, "I think my feelings are starting to get hurt here, Karl. I'm not some complete idiot."

She smiled. "No, you're not. But how am I supposed to forget Orlando?"

"That was an isolated incident! Besides, we found him in like, ten minutes." I sighed. "Please, you can count on me."

She pressed her palm against my cheek and leaned in for a kiss, swerved from my puckered lips, and planted one on my forehead. "Play it by the book, okay?"

I nodded.

And with that, my wife left on a week long business trip, leaving me and Jake alone. Silence filled the house for a moment, the kind of silence between lightning and thunder, the kind of silence before the world shakes. The kind of silence before war.

"Okay!" I shouted, turning from the door. "Prepare for batt—"

A nerf bolt hit me right where Karla had kissed me. I grinned, pulled two Nerf pistols from my voluminous robe pockets, and struck a Gun-Fu pose. "You're going down, Jake-sama!"

***

In the end, both Jake and I ended up puking. Him from overstimulation, and me from eating a big breakfast before running all over the house like a madman while screaming and firing Nerf guns. We cleaned up the mess, had carrots and hummus for a snack, and plopped on the couch to watch Vicky the Brave Llama, Jake's favorite cartoon. It was about noon when Grover rang the bell.

I opened the door, and our mailman stood there holding a package. He was in his late fifties, black, and had a golden, spectral 1 floating above his company-issued bucket hat. I never asked about it and he never brought it up. So, we left it at that.

"Morning," I said, still tasting the hummus from earlier. I tried not to wipe my cheek pockets with my tongue. "Anything good today?"

"Shiiiiit," Grover said, stretching out the word into a sentence. "Not a damn thing." He handed me the certified envelop and a digital pad to sign. "Sorry bout this one, chief."

It was a jury duty notice. "Ah, dammit."

He handed me more mail, mostly Karla's, and peeked around me for a second. "Just you and the kid?"

"Yeah. Wife's out of town on business."

He nodded, as if I'd said I was going to war. "You'll be alright."

"I know," I said, totally not defensively. "You know, I am a capable father."

Grover eyed by bathrobe. I followed his eyes and found a little patch of semi-dried puke hanging on my collar. I smiled. "Puke. You know kids."

"You take care, chief."

"Yeah, you too," I said and closed the door.

I dropped the mail off on the kitchen counter, topped off my coffee mug, and padded back to the living room. Becky and her owner, a little mountain girl named Sora, were busy climbing treacherous mountain trails on the TV, and I plopped back down on the couch to watch.

There's a lot of reasons why I could have been a shit dad. First, I had a shit dad. That sort of sets you up for failure unless you do something about it. And I did. Second, I'm a recovering addict. Despite being eleven years clean and sober, there's always that trickle of doubt in my mind. Karla doesn't doubt me. She worries, she's cautious, she cares. But she doesn't doubt me. Sometimes, that's worse than if she did doubt me. At least that way, I can't disappoint her. But, here we are. And third, I can see numbers floating over people's head showing me how many people they've killed. What kind of dad can do that?

Me.

Yeah, I get a little distracted. Yeah, some days are tougher than others, but—

I turned and looked at where Jake should have been on the couch. He wasn't there.

"Jake?" I shouted. "You know you gotta tell me if we're playing hide and seek, right?"

No answer.

A stab of panic shot through my chest. He had to be hiding. He still asks me to help him go potty, so that can't be it—unless he's going on his own? First thing's first. I'll find him, and when I do, I'll remind him of letting daddy know when he goes off by himself.

"Okay!" I shouted, hiding the fear in my voice. "Ready or not; here I come!"

***
Two hours later, I had my phone in my hand, Karla's number on screen, my thumb hovering over the "CALL" button. I'd turned the entire house upside down.

I was not panicking. My body may have been freaking the hell out, but my mind was calm, zen even. It was the calm that always came when shit went sideways in my life. It scared me sometimes, but right now, it was the only thing keeping me from losing it.

Karla must still be at the airport. She's always hours early for her flights. If I call her now, she'd come back in a heartbeat. She'd help me keep my cool, and we'd search for Jake together. She'd also never trust me to watch our son alone again.

What kind of father would that make me? Can't even trust me to watch our kid for a couple of hours before losing him.

I crumpled to the living room carpet. The couch was overturned behind me. I stared at my phone.

"I'm such a piece of sh—"

"Daddy!"

I whipped around so fast my phone went flying out of my hand. Jake was standing by the glass doors leading out to the backyard. Of course! Why hadn't I checked there?

"Honey, where have you been! I was looking—"

Jake had his mother's dark, sleepy eyes and button nose. He had my dusty brown hair and lighter complexion. He was beautiful. Proof that something good can come from me—half of me. And floating above this living, breathing miracle, my precious baby boy, was a golden, spectral number 1.

Fuck.

***

[Part 2 to come?]