I held back my tears as I slowly walked home from school, wishing I did not have to go. I finally got close enough to see that house, my house, that I despised. I looked in the driveway and was thankful he was not there. I went inside, glad no one was home, and raced up the stairs into my bedroom. Then, I broke down and started bawling, I leaned against the hard side of my bed for comfort.
I dried half of my tears and still crying reached under my pillow and took out the bottle. It was orange and I played with it hearing each pill hit the side of the bottle. I knew they would kill me quickly, it would be an easy suicide, but I didn’t want to die. I just wanted out of my life. I looked at my dresser and saw my mother's picture sitting there.
She was beautiful, nothing like me. Her name was Melissa Robin. She had dark hair and beautiful hazel eyes. I was stuck with golden hair and blue/green eyes like my father. Looking at that picture I realized my mother would not want me to give up, but I thought again and realized she could never understand what was happening, and I would not want her to.
She didn’t have to know that in the five years since she has died my father has gone crazy and murdered ten women. She doesn’t need to know how he beats them and chains them, trying to make every family feel his loss. I could never tell her what it has done to me. How it has broken me from the happy ten year old she knew to a hopeless fifteen year old. I could not show her all the cuts and bruises I have from him. How I have grown to hate him, because five short years ago we were happy, all of us.
When my mother died in a car accident things got bad, a year later when my father lost his grandparents he made me pack up and we moved. We moved ten times since they died. I hated moving, I wished I didn't have to go always hoping that someday, maybe my life would get better.
I had just laid down to go to sleep when I heard him coming up the stairs. He opened up my door. “Come with me,” he said and ran downstairs. I followed him, in my PJ’s.
“Where are we going?” I asked, flinching away to avoid being hit.
“You’ll see,” he said in a creepy voice. The voice of a killer, not of my father. At one point that was my father, but not now, now he was a cold-blooded murderer.
“Hold this,” he said getting in the car, and motioning me to follow, with a huge sharp silver knife, a killing device, his favorite. I had to hold myself back to keep myself from shaking. He had never taken me to watch him kill, and I did not want to watch.
‘Maybe he’ll kill me’ I thought and then shivered at the thought. I did not want to die that way, but it might be better then having to watch someone else die. ‘No,’ I thought he wouldn’t kill his own daughter, would he?