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Posted: Sun Jan 14, 2007 6:02 pm
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I pulled the trigger and watched as my sister's face peeled away in a flash of fire and bone chips.
In retrospect I should have felt upset, remorseful, or anything other than the grim satisfaction resting in my mind. It felt good to do it; she was last of them, and maybe I would be able to convince the cops I wasn't insane.
My mom was painted on her bedroom ceiling, well part of her anyways. The grey part. She was the only one who went without a fight, and a small part of me actually was sad about that. I wanted her to fight me, tear into me like a jackal and rend my flesh from my bones; I wanted her to resist me so I could feel justified for killing her. We don't always get what we want.
She just sat there in a stupor between death and life; looking like a trembling statue. She was the only one out of my family that didn't try to kill me in the most violent way possible.
The gunshots had been loud enough to attract attention, why don't I hear the pitter patter of beat cops racing up my steps? Why is it all I hear is a slow shuffling that seems to be gathering around my front door? Cops don't shuffle, they don't scrap their feet on the ground as they walk.
A thrashing sound brings my notice to the spastic movements my sister's corpse is making on the hardwood kitchen floor. It would seem that the brain has to be destroyed in it's entirety, rather than clipped.
I drop to my left knee and calmly press the tip of the barrel against the indention of her left temple. She stomach down with her palms flat against the oak and the right side of her head bleeding freely.
One eye is focused on me, and in that moment I can't help but notice not her pain or her misery but her hunger. The gun goes off like a thunder clap and her head all but vanishes.
Maybe I'll be sick now. That tear my father left with his teeth on my cheekbone when he woke me up, it feels caustic, white fire of infection.
The cops aren't going to be coming. No help is coming. A seven year old isn't mature enough to handle this, especially when all he has is his father's gun and not enough ammo or knowledge to get him through.
I turn the gun on myself.
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Posted: Mon Jan 15, 2007 7:47 am
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Posted: Mon Jan 15, 2007 11:22 am
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Posted: Mon Jan 15, 2007 1:37 pm
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Posted: Mon Jan 15, 2007 5:48 pm
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Posted: Mon Jan 15, 2007 7:01 pm
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Posted: Tue Jan 16, 2007 2:27 pm
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Posted: Tue Jan 23, 2007 8:29 pm
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