Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

DIRK RICHARDS

We called her Elane, but we didn't know why. There must be a reason. Wasn't her name Elena?

The plangent sound of a violin drowned out my thoughts. My eyes refocused, away from the vacant chair where our daughter, Ovi, used to sit and to the beady half-open eyes of my other daughter, Elane. We had taken the chair with us to our new home.

Elane was trying hard to fill that hole in my heart over the loss of her little sister, even when I had strictly told Elane not to touch the violin. Although, ever since the incident, my family have been considerably nice to me.

Not out of remorse or sympathy over being faced with the decision to kill a family member or let all of them drop like flies, slowly but surely. No, it was out of fear. They had no idea I was capable of such an evil act, whether it was for the good of the family or not.

If the curse of broken arms, gluttony and falling teeth was classified as a sickness, I was the prophylactic measure - my decisions have been the medicine.

Ovi's body was still twenty feet under the backyard of our old home, which was auctioned off yesterday. I could only hope a trustafarian with drugs in their back pocket bought the house, rather than a new couple who wanted renovations for a garden museum, digging up the grass and whatnot.

We held a funeral for Ovi a month back. I had paid the cemetery caretaker to place anything within the coffin. We set our story straight at the post-funeral gathering - that Ovi had passed away from pneumonia.

We didn't have much family down in Philadelphia so not many people attended because we kept our invitations to a minimum. Our new house was situated near the Schuylkill river banks, amidst the expensive neighbourhoods.

There was also a doctor's clinic nearby, so we would drive up there and have regular checkups for Jonah and Elane: testing arm movements, identification of symptoms for binge-eating disorder and basic dentistry sessions.

"So how was it, dad?" Elane added in a cockney accent. She set Ovi's violin back on its placeholder.

"It was great honey," I said. "Lose the accent, I don't think cockneys play the violin."

"Fine - but was it like how Ovi used to play it?" Elane had been practising the violin at school. It was through simple deduction that I had come to this conclusion. She always walked home late. Her hands and arms were always tired, not a result of Zheng's malevolence. She also had distinct imprints of lines under her chin, made from pressing the violin closely to her shoulder.

I was proud of her, proud that she had taken an extracurricular activity to appease me. But -

"No." I looked her dead straight in the forehead, not the eyes. I couldn't stand her miserable sappy face. Being sober was already a terrible atrocity to the point that I wanted to claw my wrinkles into shreds of stainless skin. I didn't need to feel any more terrible.

I left it at that and walked to the doorway, turning my head so she could watch me utter the words. So she knew I wasn't just a broken record like the countless other days she had played for me and she had been left ridiculed and screaming into her pillow.

"Never." I skedaddled away, shutting the door on her but still able to hear some whimpers. In truth, she sounded better than Ovi. Ovi used to always hit the wrong strings. She had a passion for the instrument but technically, not very smooth or consistent. Elane was ultimately the better player, but the love Ovi had for the violin was incomparable.

"Be nice to her," Irene said, as I entered the dimly lit living room. Now, this was an actual broken record. Visually, as well as audibly. The same routine of sitting at the couch with a tablet in her hands, designing rocket wings and windows, simultaneously viewing horror movies. This cycle of life belonged to my wife, Irene.

"TSSSHHH, pew pew! You're not getting away - from me. Fweeze!" My son Jonah sat on his knees behind the sofa, playing with the police action figures we had bought him about two weeks ago. Irene was considering buying him the criminal set as well, but that would only inspire the wrong kind of mindset to grow up with.

"I was," I said. "I'm doing it so she can get an understanding of shattered dreams."

"Shattered dreams?" Irene said from a darkened corner of the couch where the blue light from the TV wasn't hitting her. I moved to the centre of the living room so I could see her better. "Her dream isn't to please you. It's to travel the world."

There it was again. Fear. Irene was supposed to be more aggressive in her arguments. It wasn't a good environment to be in - our "debates" - but it wasn't as lacklustre as this. Putrid with dullness, the splendour of boredom.

"I know it's not her dream, but it's a simulation," I said, "that represents how she would handle it. If not for me, she would never have known this and -"

"YOU CAN'T CATCH ME."

"And her life would be wasted -"

"THEN I'LL HATH TO SHOOT YOU!"

"Jonah, pal, can you keep it down? I'm trying to talk to your mother here," I spoke. He stood up and bent down to look through his small legs at me, his blue-green plaid shorts creasing outwards.

"But the bad guy's gonna getchaway."

I sighed and smiled at the rug at my feet, his cuteness overload breaking my concentration. Even Irene snickered before waving me away from her view of the TV. She was watching Candyman, nearing the end, the rainstorm carrying out into the real world.

I stared outside the window above Jonah's play area. Black clouds sprawled across the sky, billowing in from the west. Their brassy glare drained the colour from houses and trees and burnished cars in driveways, leaving neighbourhoods tinted bronze in the faltering light.

A stillness fell over the street and in the silence came a low crackle of thunder, rolling across rooftops to the pitter patter of tiny raindrops. For a moment, everything stopped. Even the wind held its breath. A streak of hot silver split the sky, and the downpour began.

"I'm heading to the basement," I added, already walking towards the basement door.

"Don't be too long, we have a guest coming." I peeked my head back to the living room. Thunder boomed.

"Who?"

"A surveyor who's working with me to build the launchpad. Anton Berlique. He's very famous in San Francisco."

Thunder sounded off again, this time rolling across my body in cold chills.

"Well, go cook something. And turn on the lights. And the heater while you're at it. I'll be up as soon as I can."

I took my time down the stairs, reaching for the pendant light cord in the pitch black. I turned it on and hurried back up to shut the door. I couldn't risk Jonah wandering down here. Especially with the subject at hand.

In our basement, Zheng's body was suspended off the ground, his arms burrowed into meat hooks that hung from the ceiling. He had to stand on his tippy toes and his mouth was duct-taped. It was only for Jonah's safety that he avoided the basement.

The rest of my family were free to go down and whack the boy with a baseball bat or stick a drill in his side. Zheng needed to pay for making Ovi suffer before she died.

He looked up at me with his jaundiced left eye and puffy and bruised face. He was like a human pinata. And I needed to let off some steam.