How Milo Fletcher became a Murderer

Part 1

**STORY IS UNEDITED AND A ROUGH DRAFT. Any constructive criticism or comments are appreciated.**

     I grip the handle and press the blade's edge against my skin. I shiver, the cold metal sending goosebumps up my arm. I told myself I wouldn't do this again. Last time was the last time. Different. That's what I am supposed to be. I meant to create a new me before I move. An outgoing, funny, skilled, maybe a little hippy person. Most of all though, I am supposed to be happy.

But you haven't moved yet. Do it. You move tomorrow. Be happy then.

The voice is right. I'm still living with my mom today. I can be happy tomorrow. Today I want- no- I need relief.

Above me the slamming of a door is followed by squeaking floorboards. Mom got off early today. When Dad left twenty years ago she took the first job she could get. A waitress at Joanie's, a local truckstop. She never complains but I can tell she doesn't enjoy it.

What if she walked down the stairs and into the basement? She would see me hunched on my bed, knees to my chin, both arms in front of me, one holding the other hostage with a knife. Would she yell? Would she send me to a psych ward? I can't bear to imagine her face. I can't do this. What if she catches me? Or notices the cuts? She'd be in despair. She couldn't make her husband happy and now her nineteen year old daughter doesn't want to be here with her either.

It's not about her. This makes you happy. This is your escape. She'd thank you if she knew. So she didn't have to put up with your moods.

Clenching my eyes shut, I readjust my grip, tightening it until my knuckles turn white.

The aroma of spaghetti sauce drifts down the stairs. It makes me think of a town play I acted in when I turned 17. I played the silent part of girl #7 in The Lincoln Assassionation. I acted in the play within the play. They used spaghetti as the brains. I doubt his brain exploded from the gun shot in real life, but in this play brain matter splattered everywhere. Including the actors on stage. They had used a meatball spaghetti sauce. I remember holding in a laugh. It seemed so absurd. Now I only wonder what type of gun and how close I would have to be to someone to produce such an effect.

The hairs on my arms cling to the residue of apple juice on the blade. I barely remember eating the apple. Funny how these moods strike me. One moment I'm fine, attempting to relax with an after work snack. The next, the voice awakens and I'm trying to outrun a fog.

Do it and the sun will shine on you again.

I slice down the width of my arm. It produces a slight sting, I don't even wince. I glance at my arm already knowing I wont see red. A faint white stripe is already fading. My eyes well with tears. I can't even do this right. How do you fail at this? Somehow I manage to every time.

Worthless. Your dad knew that from the start. He didn't want you.

I slice blindly at my arm, unable to see past the tears. The dull knife struggles to puncture my skin. Eventually specks of blood pool around the blade. I don't stop. A small, warm stream trickles down my arm. I bite my lip to hold back a scream. Pain shoots up my arm to my brain, yelling at it to stop me. To stop it. It gives me motivation to keep going.

Then without warning, the hurt leaves me. Not the hurt I am inflicting upon myself but the hurt inside which weighs my heart down to the bottom of my stomach. The voice is silent. I stop the knife hovering it over my arm.

Shame sinks my heart further down in my stomach as the fog lifts from my head. Clarity is always on the heels of relief. The disbelief of what I did. At the moment all I feel is the throbbing of my arm, the faint scent of metal floating in the air. My mom always says "your body is the Lord's temple. Hurting yourself is disrespecting him." Maybe I don't agree with everything my mom says. But doing this can't be good for me, yet it's the only thing to ever silence the incessant, cruel voice. The only thing which puts an end to the itch.

I force my eyes to look down. I gag attempting to keep the rising vomit down. The blood swirls . It's not much more than a few jagged scratches but the sight of my blood always churns my stomach. I need to get it to stop and hide it from my mom. I wasn't counting on my mom on coming home this early and didn't bring anything down to stop the bleeding.

"Milo!" My mom calls for me. "It's time to go."

Crap. "I'll be right there, mom." I scramble off the bed careful to keep blood off my sheets. I grab a black jacket off the floor and throw it on. I can take care of it later. For now I'll blame it on my Gramps, my cat. Mom hates the thing so she won't have a problem believing it. I glance in the mirror. My puffy eyes stare back at me. I stretch my mouth into a smile. No not believable, it doesn't even reach my eyes. I suck in a deep breath and hold it in my chest. I try again. Yes that's better. I swing around and smack my shin against a box of books on the floor. I curse and run up the stairs.

Mom has the table laid out. Spaghetti and garlic bread. But that's not what catches my attention. There are four plates versus the normal two. No, no not today. The anxiety hits my bladder and I need to pee like a pregnant woman.

My mom rushes out of her room looping a belt through her jeans. She changed out of her work clothes and into a flowy, green blouse and let her honey blonde hair tumble over her shoulders. She's wearing makeup and I don't need to ask who is coming to dinner.

"I don't mean to spring this on you. But Braxton surprised me at work today." She rushes around straightening throw pillows and wiping down kitchen counters. "He's in town until the end of the week so this is your chance to meet him before you move tomorrow. He'll be here when we get back."

Mom met Braxton in high school, he loved her but she was dating my dad at the time. He came back in her life three years ago when he happened to stop for coffee and the truckstop's billboard famous apple pie on his way to Denver for business. It took her two years of talking to him to finally agree to a date. They've been dating for a year now. She wanted to be sure about him before bringing him into our lives whether or not I'd be living at home. Crazy to think I'll be meeting the guy mom friendzoned in high school before I meet my dad.

"Should I change?" It's all I can think of to say. I pull at the sleeve of my jacket, it sticks to my arm, soaked. She glances at me, looking up and down.

"No you're beautiful. You may want to run a brush through your hair though." I haven't brushed it since Friday two days ago. I'm sure it's a rat's nest.

I wince at the brush yanking my hair. Eye to eye with my reflection in the bathroom mirror I realize I am staring back at my dad. Mom kept one picture of him to give me. So I don't always wonder who I came from. I hate how much I resemble him. Same sharp jaw line, same long and smashed nose, green eyes, and black hair.

"Come on, we'll be late for your appointment"