VICIOUS

Where it all began.

Right foot. Left foot. Keep running. Come on, I can do this. I look at my watch. 2 minutes left. Shit. I'm never gonna make it. No. Fuck. I try to run even faster, but my legs begin to protest. I stop and take a few deep breaths. Okay, calm down. I look at my watch again. A minute late. I take another breath, but this one is trembling. Just like my legs. 

You probably don't know what the fuck is going on. Well... This is me, 16-year-old Taylor Humentro, running home, trying to be on time. If I'm 1 minute late, I can expect a few hits. Probably about three. My parents aren't just extremely strict, they are also abusive. Great. Because of that my life has been pretty fucked up since I was young. I don't know a lot of it, but apparently they are part of creating a gang. Not that I care about it, all I do is try to get through the day. But I have to admit that it's quite strange what they're doing. 

 In the meantime I arrived home, if you can call it that. The outside looks normal, but if you know what cruelty happens inside.. As silent as I can be, I unlock the door. The door gives a high pitch, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I step inside, not seeing anyone. The moment I want to let out a relieved breath as I turn around, a shadow falls over me. 

Oh God, here we go. 

''You're six minutes late,'' a harsh voice says. ''Don't even try to give an explanation, I won't believe it anyways.'' I try to stand tall. My mother stands in front of me, angry as fuck. Jesus Christ. I know what happens now, no matter how many times I apologize or try to explain. 

''Therapy-'' I try to bring out, but she completely ignores me. From the corner of my eyes, I see her hand coming. I can dodge it in time and all my mother does, is stare at me with a baffled face. 

''What?'' She stammers. Then she narrows her eyes and slowly shakes her head. ''Don't challenge me, you fucking pig.'' Before she can do something else, I push myself between her and the wall, trying to get away from her. I run to my room, almost stumbling over my own feet. An old vase hits the door as I close it quickly and my desk gets shoved against it, to prevent them from coming in. Out of breath I fall on the old and small bed.

I may seem weak, but I'm not. The only reason I don't fight back is because I broke my wrist the one time I did. But I'm not afraid. They think I am, but I'm not. Unfortunately, I don't think they'll ever see I'm strong enough to fight them. Just give me a knife and I'll figure out how I could bring you pain in an easy way. 

Only 30 minutes left before I have to come out of my room. I sigh. 

Why am I still doing this? 

Why am I not running away when I have the chance? 

Dear God, I wish I had the answer for you. I take my phone out of my pocket. How I ever got a phone is also a mystery, but it's the only useful thing my parents ever gave me. 

A little while later my father begins to yell from the living room. I can't hear what he's saying, but it's probably about dinner. I rush to the kitchen to take the food out of the fridge. 

''Where is my food!'' Another yell from my father. ''Taylor!'' He walks into the kitchen. ''I need a beer.'' It smells like he already had more than enough beers, but I still walk over to the fridge. 

And I need a break, but do you hear me whining about that? 

While I take out the cheese for dinner I give my father a beer. He walks back to the living room and I roll my eyes when I hear him open the bottle. 

I continue to make dinner, but then something weird happens, while going through the cabinets and drawers for three forks and the pasta. I find neither of those things, but I do find something that's even more useful. 

I find a gun. 

The black and heavy weapon lays in my hand and I look at it like I just won the lottery. Carefully, I place it in the pocket of my hoodie. Without making any noise, I bring it to my room. I hide it in the lowest drawer of my desk and make my way back to the kitchen. If my parents discover I took one of their weapons, I'm dead. I'm sure about that. 

20 minutes later, dinner is made. I place two plates full with pasta, sauce, meat and cheese on the dining table. As always, I eat dinner in my room, since my parents don't want to be disturbed while they're eating. 

''Dinner's ready,'' I say as I look into the living room, my own plate in my hand. A couch is placed against the wall and a TV stands on the other side of the room. Between the TV and couch stands a small table, which is full with sheets of paper, pens, markers and a laptop. Next to the table stand several empty bottles of beer. My father sits on the couch, just nods and stands up, his gaze still fixated at the TV. I heard my mother already walk into the kitchen. 

I walk back into my bedroom, placing the plate on my bed and shoving the desk back in front of the door. With a sigh, I sit down on my bed, taking a few bites, but I'm not hungry. 

Most of the time my parents ignore me when I'm home, which is great, because I can fucking breathe then. Everytime they are around me, I feel like I can't say or do anything. 

I keep thinking about the gun that's currently inside my desk. My eyes go back and forth between my desk and the plate of food, but eventually I get up to take a look at the weapon. 

I open the lowest drawer of my desk. Carefully, I take the gun out. Then I check if there are still bullets inside of it, the thing I'm most curious about. 

There are.

A few scary thoughts keep running through my mind. What would happen if I killed them? What if I just.. shot them? Will I be arrested? I have no answer to each of the questions, but the urge to find out gets bigger and bigger the longer I hold the weapon. 

''Fuck,'' I mumble. 

They do deserve it, but I wouldn't have a place to go to.. 

Maybe I can figure something out.. I don't know yet. 

I check my wallet for money. 5 dollars. A ticket for the bus costs four dollars. The bus rides around town till 1 AM. 

Wait. Why am I planning this out? I won't do it anyway. I'm not a murderer and I will never become one. That's a promise. 

To distract myself, I watch some videos on YouTube. Everytime I hear my parents move around or talk to each other, my heart starts beating like crazy. I hope they haven't found out I took their gun. 

Before I know it, it's 11 PM. I can hear my father snoring from their bedroom. They went to bed a while ago. I look across my own room, but my gaze stays at the gun that lays on my pillow. My hand reaches out to it. 

Then I reload it. 

I have no idea what I'm doing, but my mind tells me that this is the right thing to do. Even if it's bad. 

And then I walk out of my own bedroom, to the one of my parents.