It was another typical day for me, sitting in the car with mum and dad. Pretending that I don't exist, just so they wouldn't take their anger out on me and beat me harder than usual. Was it bad that I could now say that it happened so often that I'm used to it? The pain was what I got used to quicker than anything else. I had always hope that maybe one day my parents would love me and just stop. Of course those were false hopes, I learned that when they would always tell me they didn't love me after their daily beatings. But now, I was getting older it was soon going to be my 10th birthday and I knew better than to think they would ever love me. I stopped zoning out when we reached the house, as usually I slid away into my room as quietly as I could so I didn't have to deal with their beatings just yet. As I got to my room I closed the door behind me, getting out my stolen sketching notebook from under by bed. I remember the day I got it, I had stupidly asked mum if she could get it for me, but of course she just spat on my face in response. I had wanted it so bad that I stole it, and that's how I've been getting my things since then. Mum and dad have never noticed, but then again why would they care? I started drawing gore pictures, I developed a sick sense of mind when I was younger. I always appreciated blood and death. Ask any normal nine year old and they would tell you their favourite thing is rainbows and unicorns, ask me and I say death. So I had taken up the hobby of drawing gruesome things, I mostly specialized in pictures of me killing my parents. Who wouldn't if they got beaten half to death every day? Although part of it could have also been that I've been kept in isolation everyday. Never aloud to go to school or play outside like normal kids. My parents didn't want any of their friends knowing I was alive. Honestly I didn't mind at this point, I like the dark and being alone. It's easier for me to be alone with my thoughts all day, but sometimes, those thoughts weren't very pleasant. I was once again popped out of my bubble, as I heard massive footsteps coming up the stairs. I knew it was father, most likely drunk out of his mind, so I hid under the bed as fast as I could. I could hear him kick open the door. "Where are you, you little shit?!" his words slurring as he hiccuped. I tried to hold my breath, but just then he pulled me out by my ankle. I closed my eyes wishing that I could just be gone forever. He started to beat me with his belt, leaving bruises and cuts on me. Everything was starting to fade away into a dark abyss.
/a couple of hours later\
I woke up on the ground, feeling sore all over. I had gotten new bruises, as usual, but I had this feeling. As if something inside of me had snapped, I was through being their toy. I felt enraged, I had to do something. No one else would help me, so I had to help myself. I went down the stairs as quietly as I could in case my parents were still down here. I went straight to the kitchen and instinctively grabbed a knife. I went back upstairs into my parents bedroom, going right next to my mum as I put my had over my mouth, before she could comprehend what was going on. I slit her throat before she could scream from the sight of me holding a knife. I watched as crimson red blood oozed from the slit. I hadn't even noticed the smirk I was wearing. Next was my father, for him, I made sure he was awake. So I slid my knife across his cheek as a wake up call. "Hello beloved father . . ." my smirk was twitching. His eyes had already shot open, as he tried to get up. Before he could I stabbed him as many times as I could in the chest. He was still able to shove me, but he was far too gone, as he dropped to the floor dead.
