Tina Edgar welcomed Timothy into their home.
Warm yellow light bathed the room, glittering off polished silverware and the white cloth that covered the dining table. Dishes of every kind filled the plates, the air rich with the scent of roasted meat and spice. Overhead, an arched chandelier glowed softly, casting a gentle blessing upon James and the rest of the family gathered below.
Walking ahead of Tina, Timothy's bright smile greeted the room before his words did. "Evening, everyone. It's been a while, hasn't it?"
Hesitance gripped them for a moment; no one replied at first. Then James rose from his seat, placed his hands on Timothy's shoulders, and said,
"Welcome, son."
The others followed in their own ways.
"Hey, Timothy, it's nice seeing you again," one of them said.
He replied with a nod and a warm smile.
Timothy took his seat, while Tina and James stood a few meters away from the dining room, whispering to each other.
Settling in, Timothy called to a man sitting opposite him.
"Uncle Gilt, Aunt Marie—you two are looking good."
The chubby-looking man in a singlet and shorts replied,
"Thank you, Tim."
Timothy turned to Marie.
"Aunt, you didn't bring your daughter along. I remember when I was younger, you said that one day when I met her, we'd get married. Since then, I haven't heard from her."
Marie chuckled.
"Oh, that old joke."
A somewhat forced smile flickered on her face as she added,
"You still remember that?"
He grinned.
"Come on, Aunty, you know I've always had a good memory."
A tough, crooked voice from the far end of the dining table said,
"Didn't plan on greeting me, huh, boy?"
His attention quickly snapped in that direction. Timothy turned and replied,
"Oh my, oh my—how come I didn't see you, Uncle Bastian?"
Tapping his right eye, he added, "I guess this one didn't see you from over there."
Medium-brown skin, a partially defective right eye, and the tip of an ear missing—Bastian roared,
"You bastard, that was a low blow!"
Raising his hand, he lightly smacked the lady beside him on the arm.
"Hey, greet the kid."
The young woman, her hair half done and a red stain on her mouth, whimpered.
"Umm, good evening, Timothy. How has hero duty been?"
Timothy replied,
"Oh, it's been okay, Gretchen. Lots of problems everywhere—killers here and there, the dead rising, explosions—it's been intense."
Footsteps grew closer. The two who had been standing aside finally returned to the table.
James and Tina took their seats, and James said,
"Sorry we left—we had to talk some things out. Everyone okay?"
Voices came from around the table.
"We're good."
"It's alright."
Clearing his throat, James spoke up.
"Shall we pray?"
Everyone shut their eyes—except one.
The warm, cheerful smile Timothy once wore had vanished. His face had returned to that empty, unreadable expression.
As the prayer went on, he looked around, studying each of them quietly. Then came a line that made him pause:
The One above, we thank You. Forgive us our sins, for we know not what we've done.
He stared at James as the words were spoken—eyes wide, not in shock or anger, but with something deeper.
When the prayer ended, he lowered his head.
Food lay before them all. They began to eat.
The clinking of forks against plates filled the quiet air. Between bites of steaming turkey and sips of red wine, they dined in near-silent tension.
They ate on. Then the head of the house, James Edgar, raised his glass and tapped it with a spoon.
A soft thunk echoed through the room, pulling everyone's attention toward him.
He said,
"Let's raise a glass—to my son, Cecil."
Each person lifted their glass.
James continued,
"Cecil, my son..." He side-eyed Tina briefly before going on.
"Our boy had a short life—a life we all thought would last long and bring blessings to this family. But the world thought otherwise. Someone took him away from us. We may not know who did it, but it's all in the Lord's plan. May he rest in a better place."
He raised his glass higher.
"To Cecil, everybody."
In unison, they replied,
"To Cecil."
All this was the usual act—the kind of family drama that came with togetherness. But inside Timothy's head, it felt wrong. Disturbing. He thought,
Do these fools think I'm stupid? They think I don't know? They're playing right into my first theory, but I'm a hundred percent sure these fuckers know everything. Makes it all more fun.
A smile crept across his face—then came the laugh. At first a chuckle, then louder and louder until it became a full-blown fit of laughter. Everyone stared, stunned, wondering what had triggered Timothy's outburst.
When it finally died down, he said through a fading grin,
"It's so funny how you all act like you don't know why I'm here. Funny that you think I'm a fool."
James frowned. "What are you talking about, son?"
That single word—son—killed his smile. His expression darkened; the laughter drained away, replaced by disgust.
"Son, you say?" His tone dropped low, dangerous.
Then, louder—a venomous edge in his voice:
"I am not your son. I was never. I have never been. And I will never be."
"What's wrong Timothy what's the matter with you." Tina asked
"What's wrong, Timothy? What's the matter with you?" Tina asked.
"What's the matter with me?" Timothy spat. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to right now? Who the hell do you think is standing in front of you?" He smashed his fists into the table, the crash startling everyone.
"You ask if I'm alright? No—I'm not. How could I be, when I've spent my whole life in this messed-up family?" he roared.
Bastian barked, "Boy, if you've got something bothering you, speak up."
Tim chuckled softly. "Speak up, huh? Fine. Tell me you don't know Cecil is alive."
"No—no, Timothy, stop this. It's not funny," Tina cried.
Timothy shook his head. "Still gonna pretend you don't know? Fine. I've been a friend to you, a supposed son—what did I get in return? Mockery. Teasing. I saved you from trouble, kept you out of jail. And after everything, you stab me—right in the heart. And you still lie to my face. That gives me every reason to put you to sleep."
James, Tina, Gilt, and Marie dropped to their knees, pleading. "You have to believe us, Tim. He tricked us—he said if we didn't play along, he'd kill us."
Timothy's voice cooled. "If I hadn't met him, if he hadn't told me the truth about the deaths he and his allies caused—if you hadn't been told—I might have believed you. But he told me everything. Even you, Gilt and Marie—you're in on this. You call yourselves believers? No wonder I never trusted your evangelism. You're snakes."
Bastian snorted from the head of the table. "Wow. You lot are crazy. I thought I was mad, but thank God I'm not like you."
"What makes you better?" Timothy's gaze snapped to Bastian. His brown eyes were hard. "You one-eyed rapist. Scum like you deserve to die."
Timothy turned to Gretchen. "Gretchen… I'm sorry. I watched you suffer. Hate me if you must, but today I'll give you your freedom. Get up. Leave. Don't worry about Bastian—he's met his end."
Gretchen said nothing. Without hesitation, she rose and fled—no goodbyes, only the sudden, frantic sound of her running into the night. Freedom rushed toward her.
Silence swallowed the room. Only the Edgars and Timothy remained.
****
Five minutes later, Timothy stood in the midst of blood and scattered furniture. Bodies lay prone across the floor. He walked out of the house and shut the door behind him; the yellowish light from within leaked to the porch and then was gone.
He held a wine glass in one hand and the bouquet of roses in the other. Standing before the door, he smiled gently. He placed the flowers on the porch, raised the glass to the night air, and said before taking a sip,
"To our last Thanksgiving."