Family Business

Photo: Tu Ngoc Minh / Unsplash

My hands shook uncontrollably, and the candlestick falling to the floor made an earth-shattering clang in the empty house. Silent tears streamed down my face, which was distorted with despair. Our light Persian rug was stained with blood, and in the middle of it all lay a man. Quickly, I turned away from the victim and stared at myself in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. My hair had fallen out of my neat bun, and my mascara had smudged my otherwise well-groomed face. I couldn’t gather my thoughts.  

What happened? What have I done? What do I do now?

I couldn’t get the trembling to stop, and I stood frozen in place for what felt like an eternity. I jolted at a voice calling out from the door, and my panic escalated to an entirely new level. Frantically, I looked around and then back down at my hands, which were smeared with drying blood. The sound of footsteps striking the marble floor was getting closer to the living room. Paralyzed with terror, I stared at the doorway helplessly, waiting.  

A man dressed in a sharp suit stepped onto the threshold. My father. A small wave of relief washed over my soul, but it was instantly wiped away when I saw a flicker of shock on his otherwise expressionless face. My father stared at the chaos unfolding on our rug for a good long moment.  

Slowly, he shifted his gaze to my trembling hands and me. My silent, unceasing tears broke into a loud sob; I could no longer control my emotions. My father’s expression softened a fraction, but shock was clearly the overriding emotion.

”Don’t worry, Jess, I’ll take care of this. Nothing is going to happen to you,” my father assured me, keeping his voice calm and firm.  

I couldn’t say a word; the flood of tears was overwhelming. Miserable, I merely nodded and sank onto our white couch. I stared at the bouquet of flowers in the vase, its water already turned murky. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father set down his briefcase, checking that the door was locked, and pull down the blinds of our tall windows. No one would see what had happened inside the house.  

I heard the beep of phone keys as my father moved into the kitchen to make his call. I didn’t try to listen to what he was saying in a very low whisper. The call lasted a long time, and only isolated words caught my ears here and there: sensitive matter, cleaning service, no outsiders, as quickly as possible, discreetly. At the end of the call, my father quietly walked back into the room and sat down next to me on the couch.  

”You haven’t touched anything with your dirty hands, have you?”  

”No… or I don’t think so… I don’t remember…” I wailed.  

I just tried to think of nothing else except that the flowers needed fresh water. My father nodded in approval, and there we sat in dead silence. Literally.

I jumped when a short, sharp knock came from the door again. My father walked with steady steps to the door and cracked it open. Two figures dressed in black janitor overalls slipped inside. With a glance, I could see the face peeking out from under a baseball cap, belonging to a man of about sixty. The expression on his face was completely blank. The other person seemed younger and more sluggish, though I didn’t see their face. They carried a large, heavy-looking duffel bag with them.  

”Jess, come here,” my father commanded.  

Uncertain and ashamed, I walked over to the waiting men. My father grabbed my wrist and presented my hands to the men in overalls. The younger one examined my stains for a moment, dug a small plastic bag containing a white bottle out of their pack, and hung one of the bag's handles around my finger.  

”Wash your hands in the shower with this stuff, thoroughly. Leave the bag and the bottle on the shower floor; we’ll handle them later. Change your clothes too, and leave them next to the bottle,” the younger man instructed, avoiding my eyes and speaking away from me, keeping his head down.  

I nodded wordlessly and cleaned myself up in the shower according to the instructions.  

When I came back, my father was standing by the kitchen breakfast bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand.  

”Jess, go pack a bag. Take only your most important clothes, your passport, and important papers. It might be a while before you can come back home. If you even can,” my father urged, downing his glass.  

”What? Where are we going? What’s happening now? What about Eric?” I felt panic rearing its head again. Or had it ever really left?  

I saw movement in the living room and reluctantly turned my gaze there. I expected to see Eric’s body in the middle of the floor, but to my amazement, it was gone. The house smelled pungent — as if you’d submerged your whole face into a bottle of vodka. The men in overalls were operating systematically in the living room, scrubbing down even the smallest details.  

”Don’t you fret, let me handle this. Go pack your bag now, we’re in a hurry.”  

I nodded and rushed into the bedroom. The front of my shirt grew damp with tears I hadn’t realized were flowing again. In a rush and with eyes blurred by tears, I packed my bag just as I’d been told. I couldn’t comprehend what had happened. I couldn’t grasp that Eric was gone. Or that I was to blame.  

When I got back to the kitchen, my father grabbed the house keys from the table and handed them to the older man in overalls. They exchanged a few words that I couldn’t make out. Before I knew it, my father grabbed my bag and guided me toward the front door. I took one last, blurred look at mine and Eric’s home, until the door slammed shut behind me, and I didn’t know what my future was going to look like. 

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About This Piece

This fictional text is a dramaturgical writing exercise designed to begin in medias res—directly in the middle of an intense, high-stakes scene. Straddling the genres of psychological thriller and crime drama, the narrative explores themes of shock, guilt, and complicit family dynamics in the face of a crisis. The piece relies on cinematic pacing, sensory details, and a sharp internal monologue to immerse the reader instantly into the aftermath of a crime.