This is my first draft. If you find errors or grammar mistakes, please comment and let me know so I may fix them. Thank you. DISCLAIMER: Very grotesque writing. She is only four years old. I stand above her with the pillow in both of my hands. Her eyes look at me and she starts to smile. I’ve never hated someone so much for being happy. I contemplate if I should proceed with the thoughts that were telling me to end her life. To end her narcissist existence. End everyone’s existence which had an involvement with ending mine. I am no one. She is someone. I deserve to be loved like her. As she smiles gaily, I hunch over her crib and stare into her eyes. Tears run down my face; a river of grief and pain but yet feel relieved. As the pillow inches closer and closer to her face, she continues to smile and laugh. “I’m sorry,” I say to her while I move the pillow towards her, “you don’t deserve this. But there is nothing good that comes out of this life. I have experienced it and although I hate you, I love you enough to save you.” Her arms and legs frolic about as the pillow gropes her face. I open my mouth to yell out loud in pain; I feel my vocal chords vibrating but no sound is coming out. My face dampens with sweat and tears. Her feet slowly start to cease. Then her hand touches my fingers that grasp the pillow, so tightly. I think I am about to rip the fabric. Her life fades through her hand and I feel it creep into my soul. What seems like an eternity in my mind was rather a mere two minutes in real life. I know she is dead but the pillow weighs more than I can lift and my fingers are locked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Samantha,” I cry in a whisper. I never wanted this, but I was driven to it. Like a moth to a flame, I was drawn; never given a choice. My eyes swell due to lack of moisture, and my throat feels like someone had shoved their entire fist into it. Minutes pass. I remember the events that led me to this. My blue hue turns to red. Anger starts from my heart, and it is carried through my blood. With every beat, I grow angrier and angrier. It is not my fault. None of this is my fault. I was only ten. How could you have done this to me? My mind raced between the images. I want to burn my brain and forget my existence. I only want peace. Through all this hatred, I finally lift my hands and the pillow. The pillow falls to the ground. I stare at Samantha’s face. It looks the morning sky. Different shades of blue and red; she’s so beautiful just as I once was. My hands are once again locked. Just as they were when they were holding the pillow, but now they only grab air and hatred. She has to look like me. I feel my arms fling across the crib. I can’t control it. I am an artist and my hands are my paintbrush. The only color I use is red. My sight is diminished underneath my anger. I feel my hands go back and forth. One after the other. The first few strokes feel hard. They hit and I feel the pain. As soon as the red paint started to flow, it was easier. The hardness turns to mush. It feels like I am hitting a bowl of mashed potatoes. I hit and I hit until my body can’t move itself anymore. When I came to, I stared at my reflection; a perfect image of how I feel. Her once blue face was now a puddle of flesh, bone, and blood. A popped water balloon upon a body. I painted the crib, the wall, and my hands. It seeped red. All I saw was red. I have never been more at peace. The lump in my throat had ceased and I feel something being driven upward. My stomach curls and my hand paints my mouth. I can’t hold it back, it was too much. I vomit inside of the crib. I feel relief in my stomach. I back away for fear of it happening again. I do not leave her room. Rather, I stay at the doorway and admire my painting. What I have created with my bare hands and my imagination. The hue of red had never been more beautiful. The crib, the walls, my hands, my mouth, the floor; it was all covered. An avant-garde painting, splashes of red that brings only peace upon the soul. I smile and I feel the uproar of laughter from the bowels of my abdomen. I cannot stop. The shrieks of laughter are endless. I feel tears at my eyes once again, but I was not sad but rather relieved. I thought this would have been a more tragic experience, but rather, it was one I fully enjoyed. I finally feel free. I have controlled the destiny of a life with my bare hands. I feel like God. Peace and destruction go hand in hand. They are both two stems of a tree. Although they appear far from each other, they are but from the same trunk. I take my final look at her room. I breathe in deep and smell death. Not hers, but mine. I welcome my old friend. I go back to my room that is down the hall; painting the walls as I walk. I open the door of my room and lay on my bed. I stare at my hands and look at the darkened hue that paints my knuckles. I know there are more paintings to be painted. This is my first work of art, and they say it’s always the hardest to create. My years of planning finally start to come true. Today is the last day of my life, and today I will be free. Free from life and free from my mind and past. Today everything is fixed by being destroyed. As I lay here, I think of my father. Dr. Adam Edwards. The finest surgeon at the community hospital. He always told me that helping others was the biggest reward he could have in his career. He worked late hours and extended periods of time. He was only home for about a day every week, sometimes less. I admired him. He was everything I wanted to be. If he had not died, none of the stuff I had to experience would have happened. I was nine years old when he passed away. He had cancer and although they detected it early, it was very aggressive. My mother, Christine Morris, never worked a day in her life. She was very pretty. Always had men waiting for her and never went a day without being asked on a date. She met my father by mistake one day. He was working in the hospital when she went to a visit to her family doctor for a routine checkup. I’ve never known why my mother decided on accepting my father’s invitation to dinner, maybe it was the money or maybe she saw qualities of a man she could call her husband. After that day, they were inseparable. Seven years later she married him. And several months after she became pregnant with me. They only planned on having one child. One golden child. At the age of seven, my father was diagnosed with cancer. He died two years later in July of that year. During those two years, things were very different. He was more at home, but was always tired. I always heard him and my mother fight about the expenses. Although he was a top surgeon, the community hospital didn’t give the best insurance. They paid for most of it, but what they couldn’t cover, he couldn’t pay. The more it progressed, the more expensive the therapy and medication became. By May, he was bed ridden almost every day. He could talk normally but was always out of breathe when he tried moving. My mother never took care of him. I was by his bed stand every day and night. I did everything for him. I brought his food and water. I moved him from time to time with the help of the aid that came to our home. She was a very polite woman, but spoke very broken English. She’d put him in the bathtub sometimes, but I mainly bathed him. “Family takes care of family,” he would tell me. My mother was barley around at this time. She was always out, but she never worked. I knew she wasn’t working. Always wearing her best outfits and best jewelry. Coming home with bags of clothes and accessories. I never questioned it at the time because I was too young, but I know what was happening. She had met someone. My father died in June. We held the burial ceremony one week later in the cemetery in the town over. Many of his co-workers and patients went. He was always friendly to everyone and was well liked by all. I don’t believe my father had many close friends outside of the hospital, because if he wasn’t at work he was at home spending time with our family. I have never cried so much in my life. Losing the person you loved the most at ten is devastating. It still feels like a dream and I have yet to wake up to a better reality, one where he was still alive and breathing. My mother attended the funeral but left an hour early. She told me she’d come back to pick me up from the cemetery after the ceremony. She was three hours late. And that’s when I met him. I sit down at the edge of my bed and my mind grows numb. I can’t think, I can only feel. I feel the blood drying on my hands. I feel my hair being slightly lifted by the wind that’s coming through the open crack on my window. The slight breeze kisses my face and drives the odor of iron away. The sheets between my fingers feel like the skin of a newborn, soft and delicate to the touch. My legs sit with my knees touching and my feet spread apart. I feel the individual pieces of carpet fabric hug my feet; they’re warm. No one will be home until sundown today. As my plans currently go, I have about two hours to destroy their belongings. I reach under my bed and grab my notebook. A plain forty-nine cent notebook I bought. Every page has the same note written in it. Many call it a suicide note, but I like to think of it as a truth letter. One hundred and eight pages. I write in it every day, the same words and sentences. It has become almost like a prayer to me. I write it every day and I say it every night before I go to sleep. Today is the last day that I write this letter. To Christine and Robert, I have destroyed everything you care about. I have torn apart your public image and I show everyone your true face. You will no longer be seen as the perfect couple that lives down the street. You are both monsters hiding in the flesh of humans. I cannot describe the agony and pain you have brought upon me. I am merely showing you a glimpse of my pain and I wish that I could have shown you all of it. You deserve a million deaths and infinite more. To torture you every day for eternity would still not be enough for me. Today is my last day on earth but I have been dead for seven years. I will no longer be held accountable to keep your secrets from everyone around you. Today is your day of reckoning and my day of freedom. I hope nothing but the worst for both of you. If only I could watch your demise. God cannot save you because he could not save me. Every night I prayed to him to kill you both but after a year of no answers I knew he wasn’t there. No one was there. I rip out all of the pages carefully and carry them underneath my arm. I throw a couple of pages on the floor of my room. I walk out into the hallway and blanket the floor with my prayers. I look into Samantha’s room. The painting is painting itself now. The red has grown. It’s almost as if a tree has sprouted and is extending its branches. I walk inside the room. A hue to pink on the walls being disrupted by splashes of red. The white crib stained with the sins of man. Her white and pink bedding splashed in red. I love the sight. I grab a few pages and place them over the spot where her face used to be. The white and blue paper becomes red. The words I wrote now scream to be lifted off the sheets and into the air for the whole world to hear them. I turn around and walk out of her room. Over her dresser hangs a collage of pictures; one picture for every month she turned in her first year. The only pictures I have are those of myself and my father. I don’t know how I look anymore. I don’t see myself in the mirror anymore. The last picture taken of me was when I eight. The paper under my arms now settle on the dresser. I grab the frame off the wall. Grabbing both the left and right side of the frame, I bash it into the floor. The glass falls onto the carpet. Then her pictures. Then the frame. Then me. As I lay her upon broken glass and images of sin, I wretchedly weep. I cannot control my face nor my eyes or my body. They all feel sadness and it’s being let out through every pore in my body. My idle right hand grabs a big piece of broken glass. My fingers clench onto the sides and they tighten. I want to feel pain rather than sadness. Cuts slowly generate from the firm grip of my right hand. It raises itself towards my left forearm. It’s marvelous. What feelings arise from physical pain. The hardships of emotions go away in the blink of an eye. I feel ecstasy. But then my sadness floods right back in. I must make them go away. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. My left wrist is now a painting of my creation. A site to stare and ponder. The amazing feeling of physical pain. My hand disperses of the piece of glass and it shatters against the wall where the collage once hung. I feel my wrist. I feel the bumps of broken skin. My hand is yet again covered in paint. With my index finger and thumb I squish each open wound and let it trickle out paint. I slowly rise and exit the room. I go into the hall way and stare at the wall. It’s perfectly white. I use my index finger to soil it. I write down the date my father was buried and when it all started. The day I died. I stare and ponder about my self being. Am I acting irrational or am I still sane? I walk several feet to the washroom. I slowly start the water in the faucet. Not too warm and not too cold. I rinse off my hands and I watch the blood go down the drain. I do not want to paint anymore. My want to create art has ceased and vanished. Is this is enough? Can I go on with my plans or have I had too much? I am confused. I watch the rest of the blood crawl into the drain and disappear. I look at my arm. Several cuts filled with coagulated blood. And my other arm is scared. Scared from when I had to relieve myself of emotional pain a couple years ago. Razorblades cut easier than glass. I wipe off the blood from my right hand and inspect my fingers. I can see the lines form where I held the glass. I wipe off my mouth and wipe off the excess water from my face. I have not stopped crying. I go back into Samantha’s room and grab my prayers. I walk out into the hallway and into the living room. I shower it with prayers. I am a priest and I am cleansing this room. It all needs to be cleansed. Evil spirits and evil thoughts need to be purged. There are no longer any papers in my hands. It is spread out among the furniture and the floor. Some on the couch. Some on the table. Some on the carpet. Nothing was left untouched because everything was stained. My eyes finally stop crying. I turn around and walk into the kitchen. I grab a slice of bread and peanut butter. No jelly. I open the peanut butter cap and grab two slices of bread from the bag. I think there’s mildew growing on the bread by the green and darkened spots. It’s not the worst I’ve eaten. I grab a butter knife and slather the peanut butter onto each individual bread. Then I stack them together. I leave the sandwich on the counter and look for a cup in the cupboard. Then I grab a glass and go to the refrigerator for a cup of milk. We’re all out. I settle for water. I grab my sandwich and cup of water and walk to my room. My head stays straight. I do not look around nor do I try to see the artwork displayed around. As soon as I get to my room I shut the door with my foot and climb onto my bed. I eat slowly and cherish the flavor. Peanut butter is my favorite. I chose it as my last meal. Bite after bite I ate. Slowly consuming the calories and carbs. Recharging myself for everything that still needed to be done. I have never had a better tasting sandwich in my life. It oozed perfection and my tongue was raped with flavor. But everything comes to an end. As soon as I finished my sandwich I gargled the glass of water down, almost choking by the end. I placed the glass on my cupboard and got off my bed. I went to my closet and looked for my favorite hoodie. It was all black with leather and a cotton hood. I took off my pajama pants and underwear and put on some shorts. I grabbed my wallet and house key from my dresser and proceeded to exit my house. I quickly walked passed Samantha’s room and when I got the end of the hallway I stared at the living room. It was to my left and the exit was to my right. I had cleansed this house. I walked to the door and put on my sandals. I left. The nearest department store is a mile away. A cheap convince store where everything is sold for a dollar or less. I have several hours until anyone arrives home. I start to walk. I had my license but still did not have a car. There isn’t much people walking. But everyone is staring at me from their cars as I walk. Judgment is all I feel. Everyone judges me. This mile walk is a walk in purgatory. Every decision I have ever made and every action I have ever took presented itself and everyone judged me. I’m halfway there and I want to shield myself from their gaze; I throw on my hood and become invisible. I walk faster and faster, the less time being judged the better. I walk past a man alone in the street. He’s sheltered by a concrete wall behind the convenience store; he’s asleep. There’s cardboard underneath him. His pants are ripped and he’s wearing a torn wife beater. He doesn’t have any shoes or socks. His hair is a mess with shades of white and black. I wonder what happened to him for his life to get him there and for ours to cross. I’ve never taken into account feeling empathy for others, but today is different. I want to know what his life was like, what his voice is like, what were his dreams and aspirations and what failures he encountered before his life leading to this. He’s alone like me. I continue into the parking lot of the store and pass the faces around me. They all have masks on. Their true identity hidden beneath their false image called a face. I see a mother with her two children; one son and one daughter. They’re arguing in the parking lot over what they couldn’t get. What a trivial thing to be mad at. Cursing and yelling because she wasn’t able to get their favorite snacks. If only they knew what the world around them was doing. That’s the most of their worries. They are the special kind of beings where trivial problems are seen as important ones. I wish for their lifestyle. As they get into their moms van, I walk into the convenience store. Rows and rows of things everybody wants but doesn’t need. No produce or meat, just candy and sweets. An overdose of sugar; and yet we question why obesity is so high. Problems created by those looking for something to complain about. I hate everyone. Walking in, I go towards the aisles in front of me and the cashier welcomes me. He acknowledges someone but not me. He doesn’t look or turn, but instead stares at his phone, waiting for another customer to be ringed up and his shift to be over. I browse the store looking candles and find nothing. Another employee was going about his business and I asked him, “Excuse me, where can I find some candles?” He turns at me half bent over an open cardboard box. “Aisle four,” he says. And the meanwhile he continued to stack the large bags of lined paper. “Thank you,” I say as I walk away. I head to aisle four and find large candles in glass jars with pictures of Jesus Christ on them. Some have the Virgin Mary. A woman whom conceived a child without intercourse. She gave birth to the child of God and raised him. She and I are almost alike. I look for the filthiest candle out of the bunch. In the third row from the front, I find it. It is covered in dust and has a chip on the top of the glass. There’s a picture of Jesus leading a lamb. He’s wearing the typical Shepard clothing and is leading a white, fluffy sheep to the top of the mountain. Must mean a lot to other people. Christ leading a lamb to his safety. Leading it to his father, the Almighty God, to be saved. But in reality, he’s taking it to the slaughter. A man of miracles is no more than a crooked magician. Hiding his acts of stealing and killing with pretty colors and petty tricks. With the candle in hand, I walk towards the front of the store. The cashier whom once didn’t acknowledge me before now gazes at my face and down at my toes and back to my eyes. I place the candle upon the counter where various lotto type tickets are advertised underneath a thick sheet of glass. “Is that all for you today?” he asks kindly. “Yes, that’s all,” I reply. He grabs the candle and rings it up. “Okay. You’re total is one dollar and eight cents.” I reach into my pocket and grab my wallet. It’s a bi-fold wallet. Dark cognac brown. It’s small, and has a zipper around the opening. I unzip it and take out two dollar bills. I hand it to the cashier without saying a word. He grabs the money and his fingers slowly embrace mine. His gentle touch caresses the top of my hand and just as slowly as he touched them, he retrieves his hand and my money. He smiles at me and his face grew slightly pink. “And ninety-two cents is your change.” He grabs my change and hands it to me, but before his fingers let go of the dirty coins his lips began to move. He’s speaking but I can’t understand him anymore. I stay there with my right palm outstretched waiting for his fingers to let go but they don’t. He stares at my eyes but I stare at the change. His lips keep moving and I can feel the lust being carried out of his body through his breath. I do not speak but I grab the candle with my left palm. As I motion to leave he finally releases the coins, but my palm was no longer in the correct position and the coins fell through his fingers, touched mine, and hit the counter. I do not need my change anyways. Two people behind me stare at the awkward mess happening before them. I see smirks of laughter from them. I rush out the store with candle in hand and I feel my eyes turn to swell. I am a woman, not an object. I am to be appreciated, not used and abandoned. I rush along the parking lot and head home. “Excuse me,” I hear as I cross the concrete wall. The sudden male voice startled me and I dropped my candle. The glass shatters at the top and it cracks halfway towards the bottom. It rolls and facing me is a headless Jesus and a freed lamb. My eyes can’t hold back the tears any longer. The homeless beggar edges towards me while I cry. I’m picking up the broken candle and he’s picking up the shard that broke off of it. “Are you okay miss?” I look at him. He seems worried about me; something I haven’t seen in anyone since my father passed. His eyes look soft. He has a wretched odor but it’s not too much. His teeth are broken but still has the majority of them intact; although yellowing. His face is hardened by the sun. A big beard accompanied by bushy eye brows. I feel safe with him. “I’m okay,” I reply to him. “Why all the tears? A young pretty girl like you shouldn’t be crying like that.” I look at him and my tears fade. The water stays dampened on my cheeks but there is no more coming out. He tried handing me the broken glass but I put my palm out to signal that there’s no need for it. I reply to him, “Nothing, I’m okay. Thank you.” I walk away from him in a rush and dry off my face with the sleeves of my jacket. I rush home but it feels as if my walk home was longer than my walk to the store. Every step feels like a step backward and my destination will never be presented. My walk turns into a run. I hold onto the picture of the lamb in my palm; it brings me comfort. My run is now in a sprint. I’m racing home. I want for today to end and I never want to see tomorrow. I can’t feel my legs, they are moving by themselves. My heart is beating normally and my breaths are slow and even, but my face is sweating. I finally reach my street and turn into it. Eight houses down and to the left and I’m home. I reach the corner where my home is but I cannot see it due to the big bushes that are sprung up by my neighbor’s lawn. I take in a slow, deep breath and I sense something is wrong. I take a small step and see the bumper of a car. I edge slowly around the bushes and to get a good glimpse of what’s actually there. I can sense my imagination playing tricks on me but the image doesn’t fade from my eyes. I open and close them. It stays there. Robert’s car is parked. The red sports car gleams in the sun as I crawl towards the entrance of my home. I still cannot believe it is there. My eyes cannot stop staring and time seems to have slowed to a halt. How long has he been here for? What will I do the moment we see each other? Will he kill me this time for sure? My legs quivered and shook but my balance kept itself enough for me to reach the entrance. A big wooden door now seemed impossible to open. The golden handle cemented to its current position. I could not open move myself to open the door. His image repeated in every nerve in my brain. I stood still as I watched him take over me. I was filled with rage but I was also filled with fear. My body was frozen in the eighty degree weather outside. As I stood contemplating the outcomes of opening the door, I heard muffled noises from the inside. It sounded like the cries of a lion. My body slowly edged forward, ear first. The closer my ear edged towards the door, the louder and more clearly I could hear it. The sound of pain and woe warmed me. The more I listened, the happier I became. I didn’t imagine that I could make him feel any emotion besides anger. I felt my fears reside the longer I listened to the cries. And my hand slowly reached for the door to open it. I was set on confronting the devil inside and purifying myself through blood rather than fire. I slowly turn the doorknob and push the door open. It makes a slight creaking noise as I open it. Halfway through, I slide inside. There doesn’t seem to be much disturbance, but the echoes of the cries from the hallway intensify with every step. Screams of a dying soul peer through the frames of the house and it soothes mine. Step after step, slowly creeping forward, to the man who destroyed whom is now himself torn apart. I finally reach the side of the hallway and look. There is a man I once knew whose on his knees and crying. His cries slobber over his face and his eyes are narrow and shallow. His face speaks agony but it is very still. The only movement comes from the unstoppable flood of tears. His mouth slightly open and fluid seems to be slowly streaming from his nostrils. His bottom lip quivers to speak but only moans release now. His vocal chords seemed to have stopped working as soon as I peered over. He doesn’t notice me as I stare at him from the corner of the hallway. His cries begin again, as if a memory he had repeated and the emotions flooded him again. He wails loudly and cringes his face. He slams his fists into the ground repeatedly. They are red with the pressure of being hit upon the ground. He covers his face with his knees and cries even louder. He mourns while I celebrate. I edge past the hallway and onto the kitchen. He doesn’t notice me still. Leaving the candle on the countertop, I slowly grab a kitchen knife from the holder beside the refrigerator. The blade is about a foot long. The silver metal reflects itself back at me and I can see my eyes clearly; they’re gleaming. The wooden handle feels heavy. I re-grip it several times before it finally settles into my clenched fist. I turn with stern motivation and the knife hits upon the refrigerator. A loud percussion sound echoes and a faint gasp is let out. He knows I’m here. I scuttle away to the corner of the kitchen and envelop myself into a ball; hoping he would not see me hiding. Slow brooding footsteps edge towards where the knife hit. I edge my feet closer to my body and try to create the smallest amount of mass I can. The presence stands there. Several seconds go by, maybe minutes or hours. The being knows I am present. Then it screams, “Where are you? I know you’re here! You fucking bitch! I swear I’m going to fucking kill you!” I gasp silently but it was enough. He enters the kitchen and sees me curled up in a ball holding the knife. He steps towards me as I leap out of the ball and point the knife if his direction. His tears aren’t dried yet but I can only see the anger in his eyes now. He takes a swing at me and I duck under. The knife stayed in place and he almost knocks it out of my hand. He takes another swing and it hits me in the stomach. It drives all the wind out of my lungs and I curl up as a ball once again. I try to regain consciousness but it’s almost useless. I feel his tight grip upon my shoulders and he grabs my sweater. I feel my legs slowly start to stand, not by my strength but by his. My head is slowly climbing as I see his feet get smaller and the colossal shape of his body emerges from the top peripherals of my sight. As soon as my eyes meet his stomach, I see his hand launch back for another blow. Before he could reach his intended extension, I thrust my hand into abdomen. I feel some resistance but nothing that stops me from putting every inch into him. The first time was fast. It feels like I am slicing into a piece of pork flesh; fileting it. He hiccupps and gives a slight painful moan as his body freezes a little and becomes more at ease. I start yelling as I repeat my hands movement. It only takes three strokes for him to succumb to resting; and he falls to the floor. His eyes stare at me and mine at his. He only wishes that he had killed me sooner. I stand over him and slowly kneel above his crotch. I raise my hands and they come together before giving a blow to his stomach. As the knife goes in, his sins come out. “I was so young back then. You took advantage of me. Maybe I was naïve to believe that you actually wanted to be friends with me. That first night, you kissed me while my mother was away and you slowly rubbed your hands all over my body,” I say as I lift my hands again. “Then you told me we were only playing a game. I couldn’t tell my mother because then I would lose the game and we wouldn’t be able to play anymore. And a week later, you handcuffed me to your bed as you recorded yourself taking advantage of me. You stripped off my clothes and let yourself in. You took everything away from me.” I slammed my hands down on his gut once again. Tears filled my eyes because of the memories, but I was joyed to know that it was finally coming to an end. “Three years it went on. I tried telling my mother, but she only abused me harder than you. The curse words and the bruises. That’s all she did. And when I finally started highschool, you impregnated me. Everyone thought I was something I wasn’t and no one talked to me because I was different.” I raised my hands over him once again. His eyes follow the movement of the blade. “I gave birth but you took her away. You and my mother told me I was not allowed to hold her. My own daughter. I was to keep away at all costs or else. You two were to parent my own child. You both deserve to rot in hell!” And my hands slammed once again into him. “I didn’t even recognize my own daughter! You transformed her into something that wasn’t!” I turned the knife clockwise and then counterclockwise. I picked it up for the last time, and I put the point of the blade into the middle of his eye. I stand over his body and look at the site of what I did. His shirt was covered with his sins and the knife was like a flag of freedom. My hands and my clothes were covered with him. Small chunks of flesh lay upon my hoodie. I brush it off and walk back into the kitchen. It’s all over now. No more farewells. I’m glad it was me that killed him, and not the fire that was going to now consume me. I grabbed the candle and placed it on the countertop the dining room table. His body lay several feet next to it. I turn on the stove top and let the gas leak into the room. I make sure all visible windows are closed. Then I grab a lighter and light the candle. I sit down in the kitchen and wait. I wanted to place the candle at the most outer edge of the house so that the entire place would explode once both of the demons were home, but things change and I am happy that it was my physical hand that killed him. I stare at the candle and explore the artwork. The once white sheep is now stained red, but it is free and that is all that matters. Soon it will also be dead like me. I hope my prayers are not all burned in the explosion and the aftermath. They may not know what exactly why I did what I did, but they will know I suffered. Maybe my mother will now know that if she had listened, we’d would have been better off. My name will soon be forgotten, but my pain will always exist.
Submitted September 04, 2015 at 02:05AM by LillithFranke http://ift.tt/1JQR8Vl shortstories
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