Obsessed

Chapter 1

Entry 1: 06-28- 2007"George: George has black hair and blue eyes. George is smart and funny. I am George. George is me. I will be George. His life, His friends, they will be mine."

"Son! Come down here! Dinner is ready!"

Upon hearing those words a little boy who wasn't quite right in the head ran downstairs to accompany his family at dinner.

"What did you do today son?" his father asked.

"I wrote in my journal, Father." the little boy responded shortly.

"Is that so? Well what did you write about?" his mother asked.

The little boy thought of an appropriate answer for his parents, knowing that if they ever read his journal he would be sent to the looney bin. This little boy was only 7 years old when he wrote his first entry in the journal he would keep with him for years. He was a very intelligent 7 year old, though everyone knew he was a little odd and not quite right. They thought it was just because of his intelligence at such a young age, but soon enough they would find out that they
were very wrong.

"So?" his mother asked again.

"Respond when you're spoken too boy." His father said his temper running thin.

"I wrote about how I love being seven." the little boy responded.

Knowing that if he said anything more his fathers blood would boil over. His father always had anger issues for as long as he could remember and his father often took them out on his family. It didn't take much to make his father angry. Very often he would find his mother weeping on the bathroom floor. Just one of the possible aftermaths of his fathers rage. This little boy had a very disfunctional family, so it's only fitting he was raised a little odd. At the young age of five he punched his older cousin so hard, the blow broke his nose. Now of course this little boy wasn't very violent only in flashes of anger or fear, but towards his father, well that was a different story for a different time.

"That's great sweetie." the boys mother said, snapping the little boy out of the peculiar thoughts he had.

Dinner went by smoothly other than the fact that his father had another one of his "episodes" as the family calls them. This caused the family to go to their respectable rooms to allow the father to cool off. This happened often so the members of the family had gotten into a routine of doing this each time their father had an episode. Each family member had gone to sleep by 10 pm to get ready and rested for the day tomorrow. See the next day would be a very exciting day for the little boy, it's the start of the new week. A new week of "observing" George.
A new week to carry out his plan.

"GET UP BOY." the boy was woken up to his father screaming and banging on his door.

Much like every morning.

He grumbled as he got up and put on the same school uniform as the rest of the sorry kids at his school. He looked in the mirror and smiled. He began heading down the stairs when there was a loud scream from the kitchen. The boy ran down stairs to the kitchen to see his mother on the floor crying.

"Mom!" the boy rushed over but stopped when he saw the blood on his mothers night gown.

His eyes widened as he saw the knife on the floor and the blood on his mothers hands. The little boy didn't understand what was going on. His mother was a happy woman, she wouldn't do this to herself. His mother looked up at him with teary eyes as she fell to the floor, her hands still holding the spot where the knife had collided with her skin. With weak movements she had bid her son over. Slowly and carefully the boy moved, fear evident in his features. His body trembling as he took his mothers hand in his.

"____, my boy"

The mother had said his name, but he could not hear it. Tears had started falling now as the boy stared at his dying mother. She smiled up at him and again said his name. But the boy could not hear. He couldn't hear the last words his mother said. He could only watch as she took her last breath in his arms. The seven year old boy set her hands on her heart and picked up the knife. Throwing it in the sink, he closed her eyes and walked away. He put on his shoes his laces now covered in blood from his hands and walked out the door with his hidden duffle bag under the stairs. He didn't flinch, nor did he look back when he heard the raging screams of his father. Nor did he feel pain when he heard the heart wrenching screams from his siblings. Only when his older sister called his name, did a tear fall from his eye. But yet, the little boy did not look back, the boy did not stop walking. The boy ran until he couldn't anymore. Only when he found a bench to sleep on did he relax and let the events of that day dawn on him. His mother was dead, from her own hands. What an awful day to turn seven. What an awful day indeed.