Spiderwebs of schizophrenia

Daddy was soaping his hands spotlessly clean, unnecessarily clean.
It was impossible to live with the quirks of a puritanical moralist.
At night, I could hear him in the basement, reading, exorcising resounding voice in the world itself. Maybe he had a plan to make me crazy: First, doping me. Then, holding me in dark rooms, just as he had done to my mother.
The parasite used to say that I killed her, but both of us knew that I hadn't had my hands dirty with blood.
Cost to believe that he did not realize my sobriety, I could not take a dose of hypnotic that night - because we were on a special day.
It was time to pray for my beloved mother in the white room, a locked room.
Every ten years, the psychopath release me to talk to her, in the same room where her body was buried. Ten years ago she asked me to release her, but the key was hanging on the neck of the old man.
Now my bare feet touched the ground already wet. Why was so red as well?
In an instant, I realized that the key was parked in my hand just as the dirty blood of my father, and liberty triumphant, gloriously decaying corpse of my mommy.