My mother and father were such an unhappy couple. They fought for ages, and I often got the blame if one of them lost their job. My father was abusive, very critical and rough. My mother, on the other hand, was a pacifist, gullable and very unbeknowist to all the other girlfriends my dad had.
Then, one day, I ended all of it.
It was in December a few years ago that my father had come home from work with a girlfriend, thinking that my mother was still at work. Well, she was home, and when he swaggered in with a half-naked whore, she pitched a fit and started hitting me instead. Why did she do this? I was so confused that I stumbled backwards and into the lamp, shattering it. The shards sliced my back, and I passed out, out of strength.
While I was out, my father’s girlfriend had left while my parents dished it out to one another. I was so upset when I came to, finding my mother black with bruises and my father laughing like a hyena. They engaged once or twice in a bloody fight that only made my mother cry out in pain even more.
I didn’t know why I did it, but I picked up one of those shards from the lamp, and struck my father across the face again and again, enraged. He died that night, after having a lot of his blood removed by my hand.
Even now, I can hear his deep voice yelling in pain. And even now, my mother blames me for his adultry. She doesn’t need to. I know it’s my fault.
Maybe I’ll kill her too.