Born To Write

There is no rhyme or reason for my actions. The time just seemed to be slipping away as I curled up on the floor, curled in a ball. The fear penetrated me and caused me to shake and shiver. I looked to the floor-length mirror and could see the emptiness in my eyes. It must have been terrible for my mother when I left the house that day, and I’m sure she saw that when I left.

That day was one where my heart felt empty. I felt nothing and no remorse for my actions; that was just what it was— an action. I enjoyed every second when I killed that man, but no one understood why I had done it, and neither did I.

Maybe starting where it all began would help you understand what happened. It was a bright and clear Saturday morning. I was home from school, and everyone was asleep except for him. The person I speak of is my father, or really, stepfather. He was sitting there and drinking beers already, and it was only eight in the morning.

I was sneaking into the kitchen to make myself some breakfast. He never wanted us to do that, even though he would never make us breakfast or any meal. He always said that was my mom’s job, but she wasn’t up yet, and I was hungry. I got to the kitchen when it happened.

The creak on the damn floor. I forgot about the spot that would cause everything that happened next.

“Are you in the kitchen, you little shit?” He yelled from the living room. I stood still, hoping he wouldn’t come in, but that didn’t happen.

I heard the Lazy Boy footrest snap shut and the heavy footsteps that brought fear into every fiber of my body. I knew I was about to get the shit kicked out of me, and I had had enough. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen block and stood waiting around a corner where he couldn’t see me. I was ready, and today I was going to take the fight to the bastard.

I got on my hands and knees and with a quick motion I sliced straight through his Achilles tendon. He fell to the floor with a thud. I heard the crash of dishes and saw them hit the floor and land on his head. He attempted to get up, but to no avail. I jumped from the corner on top of him and began stabbing the man I despised more than anything I have known. Later they told me it was over fifty times.

During the entire attack I was in a fog. Believe me, I don’t remember anything after the crash of the dishes. I don’t even remember when my mother pulled me off the, I use this term loosely, man. I don’t know how she didn’t hear the attack at the beginning with the crash, but apparently she didn’t or so she says. I believe she was watching and happy I did what I did. She knew her abuse would stop and I probably wouldn’t be punished severely due to my age.

Unfortunately, the prosecutor didn’t think like my mother did and went ahead and prosecuted me as an adult, but I escaped and here I lay now. This house is my refuge, but the memories of what I did still pull at my soul and my eyes are empty, and now I have to kill again. I have a taste for blood and the prosecutor’s house is right across the street.