"I'm sorry for your loss."

"You poor thing, I can't imagine what you are going through."

"No eighteen year old should have to be alone like this."

"He's in heaven now, Ripley, he'll always be watching."

"How terrible for a father to leave his daughter like this."

These things, all these useless words have been all anyone has said to me since the day of the funeral. Because of these worthless, weak attempts of comfort, I have barricaded myself in my own home. The silence in this house is nearly overbearing, but I prefer it rather than forcing myself to socialize in a sea of fake pity.

I have six months of my senior year left of high school, but I decided to drop out. I don't need my diploma anyway. I can easily make a living by doing what I love most; painting. I make enough money selling my artwork online. As horrible as it is to say, this is the only benefit I get from my father being gone. He wanted me to finish high school, to go to college and become someone as brilliant as he was.

All I ever wanted to do was paint. So, that's what I've been doing. To comfort myself, I paint. I've painted twelve portraits of my father already, just so I can remember what he looked like. I've hung them all around the house. Some would say that is creepy, but as alone as I feel right now, I don't care.

I've redecorated the living room. I threw out the sofa, and made it into an art studio. This is my house now, and it will be what I want it to be. What I've always wanted it to be. I won't be having house-guests anyway. Nobody wants to hang out with the girl whose father killed himself. The girl who has a lab in her basement.

Despite all my attempts of comfort, maybe even false happiness, it all always crumbles when I'm reminded of the responsibility that was forced upon me.

It's been a little less than two weeks since he died. Since my father took his life. And I know I should do what he was to afraid to, but because I am also a coward, I have yet to do it.

I know subject Three Eleven Thirteen; Ellie, is still alive, because I can hear him sometimes. The clinging of his chains as he shifts around in that tiny cell of his. I also am aware he is more likely suffering down there, and because I deserve to go to hell, and because I am a human being who fears the unknown, I don't want to do it, I don't want to go down there.

If I didn't have such a dreadful sense of shame, I would just leave him to die down there. I would probably never go down into the lab again. If he can't die of starvation, then I will leave him down there for an eternity to suffer, just like he made my father suffer.

God, but the guilt is eating me alive.

I stared blankly at the canvas in front of me. A dark shade of blue blanketed the bristles of my paintbrush, but it never touched the white of the canvas. Usually I play music loud enough to drown out all my thoughts -and any noises that come from downstairs. Most of the music I play were my father's favorites. The old stuff, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, they relax me in a sense I never recognized until my father was gone. But, right now, the house is run in silence. I am left to determine whether I should become the worst of man, and abuse my prisoner, or show him compassion, even if he is contaminated with a substance that humanity is unaware of.

I've counted now, it's been three hours and forty-seven minutes since I last heard him make a noise. I shut my eyes, and sighed; it has to be today, I know it does.

The paintbrush I was holding suddenly fell to the floor, the blue paint that was on it splattered on my shoes. I glanced down at my hand, which was shaking as the fear pumped through my veins. I wasn't angry at myself, not even annoyed at the mess. I bent down, picked the paintbrush up, and set it neatly beside the rest of my brushes.

Three hours and fifty-three minutes since he last made a noise.

I walked over to the fireplace, and grabbed the only two keys that were kept in a glass container. I stared at the familiar metal, as my body mechanically moved to the door which lead down to the basement.

The lab.

I unlocked the door and slowly moved down the steps. It was dark, and though I didn't want to turn on the lights in fear of what I'll see, I found the switch, and I counted to ten, before I flipped them on.

The cell was in the corner of the room. On the tables, was technology I'll never understand, and glass bottles of liquids that were probably poison. No, I knew they were.

The only thing I grabbed was a syringe that was full of a purple concoction. I knew what this stuff was, and I knew it was what Ellie was running on. My father hadn't begun feeding Ellie human foods yet, he feared his stomach wasn't strong enough to handle it, and wanted to wait until his organs got used to working on their own. Luckily, my father made an abundance of medical liquid for Ellie, but eventually, the time will come when we will run out, and I'll have to force him to eat the same foods I do.

I dread that day.

With the syringe in one hand, and the key to the cell in my other, I walked over to the metal door, and inserted the key. This time, I had to count to twenty. My heart was pounding, and though I knew Ellie was chained up inside of the cell as well, I still feared him. Something is off about him, something supernatural, or maybe whatever it was is too intelligent for me to comprehend, supernatural is the only word I can describe it. His strength increased ridiculously everyday, and I could only imagine what level of strength he holds now.

In one swift gesture, I swooped open the cell door, and peered in. Just as he should be, Ellie laid helplessly on the floor in almost fetal position. He was thin, but not nearly thin enough for a man who hasn't eaten in nearly three weeks.

His head slowly moved up to look at me, and we stared at each other, just as we used to do when my father first introduced me to him. As hesitant as I was, I stepped closer to him, and leaned down, forcefully grabbing his arm, and injected the syringe's needle into it.

He barley moved, but I refused to be stupid enough to believe he didn't have any strength.

I noticed the veins in his arms weren't blue like a normal human's, but black, just as my father described. His fingernails were black as well, which sent a shiver down my spine.

"You killed my father. I should just leave you to die." I say, though I think we both knew I couldn't live with myself if I did that. Seeing him, though, reminded me why I was so scared of him, why my father had died so unexpectedly.

I watched his head lean back against the cold floor, almost as if he were suddenly in a state of relief from the medicine I gave him. Seeing that, all my rage suddenly drained from my body.

He really was suffering down here. The words I said had no meaning not really, but now, I regretted them.

I pulled the needle from his arm, and stood up, unable to look at him any longer, I stepped out of the cell, and locked the door behind me.

How unfair it is that my father left Ellie in my hands, and yet, I couldn't help but think how unfair it is that my father ever gave Ellie life to begin with.