depression silhouette - Valenta Mental Health · Rancho Cucamonga

The knife sank home so easily that the warm, sticky fluid that spurted over his hand and down his arm came as something of a surprise. He had little no idea what was happening as he rose from the bed, doing so easily thank to his younger, more fit body that thankfully came back to him during these transitions. His mother’s face reminded him of a landed fish, her lips forming an O of surprise as her eyes remained wide as crimson had already stained the left side of her neck, running freely down her shoulder and over the tattered robe she wore.

“You’re a dumb bitch,” he said to her, keeping his voice quiet as he grabbed a fistful of his mother’s robe in his left hand, pulling her close. “I’ll forget about you after today, and for all I’ll know, I ran away to get out from under you and that piss-drunk asshole you call your husband. You won’t even be a memory.”

He yanked the knife free and then proceeded to stick it into his mother’s ribs several times, shanking her so hard that she leaned to the left as he dropped her like a wet sack of laundry, letting her bleed out out on the floor.

“What’s goin’ on back there?!” his father yelled, “Goddamn it, do I have to do everything myself?!” He could hear the snap of leather as his father was no doubt looking to put a few licks into him before he had to go to work. It had happened before he recalled, and he’d learned to keep from crying out since it only made things worse. As his father came storming into his room though the look on his face quickly went from one of fury to shock as he noted his wife on the floor. Without warning his son stuck the knife hard into his belly, retracting it just as quickly to stick it even harder into his side, and then yanking it out again to reach up and feint a stab at his father’s neck, only to slam the knife home under his armpit when the older man raised his arm.

“Just die,” the teen said, grinding the blade into the wound as the old man howled in pain. His arm came down then, trying to pin the weapon and the hand holding it, but the teen was too quick as he yanked the blade free, his hand and the weapon coated in red as he stuck the weapon into the side of his father’s neck, twisting it cruelly to finish him off.

He left the room then, calmly, sedately, and headed to the bathroom, stepping into the shower as he stripped, turning on the hot water. He knew what to do, he’d watched enough CSI and performed enough Google searches on how to make this work. He’d been abused more than once during his life, and the social workers and police that had come out to his home had done nothing, in fact had been unable to do anything since his parents acted like model citizens when they were here, and his injuries were often explained away without fail. It had taken him a few years to finally do something, but now he was going to do it. And he had to make it look convincing.

And when he was done, it would all cease to matter. It wouldn’t even be a memory as far as he was concerned.

The End

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