Fifteen.

I didn’t know what to think when I saw the blood trickling down my father’s head.

College.


Panting and sweating a bit in front of the girls in my class, I nervously began to write the answer to the problem Mr. Mcnair had asked me to do. With the chalk screeching against the putrid green board (Mr. Mcnair is the last teacher on Earth to have an actual chalk board, I swear) I write X’s and Y’s, variables and squares feverishly. Finishing the problem in record speed, I put the scratchy chalk to rest on its mantle, and then turn and shuffle back to my seat. On my way back, a boy I don’t recognize sticks his foot out and I trip over it, hitting my face hard on the floor. Everyone’s laughter rings in my ears, and as I turn my head to see what the teacher will do, I catch him snickering as well.

Later.


Resting my foot on the end of the couch, I lean back with an easy sigh as I bite into another of my grandmother’s delicious cookies, an un-heard moan escaping my lips. Turning on my comp, I pull open my e-mail and am assailed by the usual hate mail from unknown people saying “why don’t you just die already?” nonchalantly, I erase them, not even bothering trying to figure out who sends them anymore. Getting to my feet with a labored grunt, I look down at my huge stomach and rolls, and I think to myself “Girls don’t like me anyway, what’s the point of losing weight?”

Then.


Is that what blood really looks like? I was too young to be seeing this. The most gore I’d seen was the Hollywood stuff. It wasn’t supposed to be for real life, let alone my life. But my curiosity took over; I approached the still figure that was sprawled on the floor. Later I’d remember seeing the small, perfect hole on his left temple, but then all I could see was the blood. So much of it, too, more than a person should have; it was on him, over him, around him. I couldn’t stop from touching him. My brain hadn’t registered he was actually dead yet. I kept whispering “dad, please, wake up… this is fake blood, right? Just a gag?” but he never stirred, didn’t open his eyes and wink at me, didn’t even give me his famous crinkled grin.

The tears didn’t come until after the police pried me from him.

Nineteen and in bed.


Maybe I should do my homework. Maybe I should lose weight. Maybe I should be having a more typical college experience, dating plenty of women, join a fraternity, experiment. Live. I can’t though. The funny thing about seeing death, you start to think about it. I can picture me dying in my sleep, dropping dead as I’m walking towards class. A stranger pulling a knife on me and looting me for what little money I have so he can afford his addictions. Thinking about death has done this much for me-

I want to kill whoever shot my father. A life for a life, blood for blood.

Mom.

I remember my mother coming home before the police. She shrieked her head off, she was the reason the police were involved; panicked neighbors called the cops on our house. But I don’t remember seeing my sister. I remember she and dad were supposed to go to the mall and get new school clothes for her, but she wasn’t around when mom and I were at the house. I guess she was at a friends house, that seemed like the most logical thing.

Cont.


I was 17. People started rumors about it- I joined a gang and it was the initiation, I was in a blade fight. Fact of the matter is, they’re all wrong.

My mother stabbed me when I was 17.


It wasn’t abuse. It was an honest mistake, but it was enough. It was late on a Friday, about a month after dad had been shot. I went to Hector’s house, we had been put together for an AP science project, and I had to stay late. If I remember right, I guess I didn’t get back home until about midnight. When I walked through the door, I crept silently, didn’t bother turning on the lights, I didn’t want to wake mom. My room was just past hers though, so I tried to walk softly past her door. As I was just passing her doorway, I heard a bloodcurdling “AAARRGGHH” and I knew that I was going to experience pain- a 6-inch butchers knife wedged into my right shoulder blade, followed by blows to my head. Screaming in pure agony I cried out “MOM IT’S ME OH GOD MOM IT’S ME” I hit the floor and blacked out.

Just enough.


Mom was sent to an insane asylum. The judge had claimed she was “mentally unstable, a time bomb that can harm others and herself.” I was sent to grandmas house.

Evidence


The police have yet to contact any of us about who killed my father (though they are still on the case). Grandma (who is dad’s mom) doesn’t want to know, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with it. Izzy (short for isabelle, my sister) says she doesn’t care one way or another just so long as they lock him in prison. I however am tired of waiting. I want the truth. I want to know.

Cont.


A letter arrived today (the day after everyone laughed at me). It was signed from the local court office. I opened it with a cold excitement, and read the three lines that were hand-written from the head of investigations (who I got to know, we operated on a personal you-to-me level). It read-

We found the gun under a floorboard in your sister’s old room.
We scanned the gun for fingerprints after we got the authorization.
Your sister shot your father.