He finally paid for what he’d been doing.
I'm a quiet kid in highschool. I won't give my exact age, but this should give you a general idea. Summer just started for me, but I don't really care. Summer is just another stage of Hell in this nightmarish household.
I don't know my real father. He's been gone since I was two, so I never got to really meet him. My mother said he just up and left one day, for no apparent reason. She thinks he just got sick of parenting and wanted to escape it all.
A little while after my father left, my mother started dating a new man. He was charming, charismatic, and had looks that could kill. He moved in with us in our shoddy, run-down, single-story home in the pits of Baltimore. Our family didn't have much money, but for a while, we led a happy life regardless. My step-father was nice. Or so it seemed.
My step-father had a bad drinking problem. He would drink himself into a haze, until he collapsed onto the stained carpet in a pool of his own vomit. My mother, bless her soul for dealing with his shit, would drag him to his bedroom and tuck him in. For a while, he wasn't a violent drunk. Just loud and obnoxious, occasionally cursing, which would cause my protective mother to give him a stern look saying to keep it clean around me. He would usually quiet down a bit after that before collapsing like usual.
It wasn't a daily thing. It would happen probably two, three times a week. He would come home from a long day at work, pull a 6-pack out of the fridge, and chug them, one after the next, until he collapsed. He wasn't the greatest at holding his alcohol.
However, this all took a drastic 180. One day he stumbled through the doorway after work, clearly already drunken off his ass. He almost broke the couch as he collapsed down onto it. "Heeey, Joey, go 'rab me my" burp "6-pack outta the frrridge, willya? 'll even letya take a swig outta it…" My mother heard this, and raced into the living room, yelling at him about how I was only 8 and couldn't drink, and that he had driven home drunk and could've killed someone, all while my step-father was quietly growing more and more agitated. Out of nowhere, my father smacked my mother. Hard. Knocked her down onto the floor, a massive welt already forming on her cheek. She was out cold. I shrunk back into the corner, trying to make myself as small as possible, thinking he wouldn't notice me. "That oughtta shu'tha bitch up… Now, willya go grab my 6 pack or do I have to make ya do it?" I sat down and curled up, beginning to cry. He grew more and more pissed until he came over and started kicking me in the face. I cried, louder and louder, blood splattering the wall, until my father finally gave up. "You lil piece a shit…" He stumbled over to the fridge, grabbed his 6-pack, and started chugging until, like usual, he collapsed. This time, however, no one drug him to his bedroom. My mother had been out cold on the floor for about half an hour now, and I was quietly crying in the corner, blood covering my face and the wall. About 10 minutes after my step-father collapsed, my mother came to, and realized what had happened. She came over and grasped me, comforting me, until we both fell asleep in the corner of the room.
When my step-father awoke in the morning, he was still pissed because he had a killer hangover. He looked at my mother and I with a look of nothing but pure disgust and disdain. He groaned out of the house and drove to work without any fragment of an apology for what he had done.
This continued. He had a violent outburst about once a week. He would beat my mother and I senseless, threatening to kill us if we breathed a word of this to anyone. He would nearly drown my mother and I in cold water trying to get rid of our bruises faster so no one would question anything. This went on for years. Elementary school passed, and then middle school, and finally I was in highschool. My mother and I had grown utterly terrified of my step-father, but we followed his command not to tell anyone, afraid that he would actually kill us.
Meanwhile, I had been quietly brooding. Thinking of a way to take care of my step-father and free my mother and I from this hell we called our lives. I wasn't sure how to do it. I was afraid of telling anyone, thinking that he would actually kill us. But I was also afraid to stand up to him. Either way I thought he would kill me. I had to figure something out.
Until that day. I came home from school, like usual, expecting that disgusting man to be slumped on the couch, drunk off his ass like usual, but he wasn't. The house was dead quiet. It was unsettling. All the lights were off. I quietly crept around the house. "Mom?" I called. No answer, which was strange because her car was parked in the driveway. Maybe she was taking a nap? I slowly and quietly snuck up to her bedroom door, and quietly opened it. "Mom?" I said again.
What I saw behind that door crushed my entire world. The woman I called my mother was no more. The walls, ceiling, and bed were showered with blood. A single gunshot to the side of her head. I ran over to her, grasping for a glimmer of hope that she was still alive, but I looked at her face. Her eyes had rolled over into the back of her head, and the bullet had gone clean through. There was a bullet hole in the wall at the back of the bed. Brain matter splattered the headrest, and what I can only assume were bits of her skull. The right side of her head was entirely caved in, while the left was bursting open, blood and brains flooding out. In her right hand was a .44 Magnum and a receipt, which I saw was for said gun and some ammunition. Next to her on the bed was a tattered, blood-covered note that simply read, "I'm sorry".
I completely lost it. I slumped onto the ground, screaming and crying uncontrollably. The one person I could trust to keep me safe from that monster of a step-father had taken her own life because of him. I was all alone because of that disgusting, wretched creature that drunk himself into an abusive, alcohol-induced frenzy almost every day. After a few hours, I finally managed to gain control of my body and vocal cords again. I noticed that my father still hadn't come home. That fucking bastard is probably out drinking himself to death, I thought. Good. I hope he fucking drives 100 MPH into a tree with no seatbelt. I collapsed onto the couch, and just sat there in a daze, unable to comprehend what had happened. I slowly cried myself to sleep.
I awoke a few hours later to the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. I peeked through the blinds and saw my step-fathers rusty-piece-of-shit 90's Impala speed into the driveway, taking out our mailbox in the process. He stumbled out of the car door, tripping the entire way to the front door. He opened it, and our eyes locked. "Ay, ya little piece'a'shit, go gimme my beer."
My mind had already shattered, but I maintained control. "Sure, father." I said. He was surprised at how cooperative I was being, but brushed it off as he slumped onto the couch. I quietly walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out his 6-pack.
"Father, could it wait a second? I need to run to the bathroom first." I said.
"Make it fuckin' quick, ya little shit." He grumbled.
I quickly made my way to the bathroom and opened the bathroom cabinet. I grabbed my mother's sleeping pills from the middle shelf, flushed the toilet and ran the faucet to make it appear that I had used it, and slowly walked back out to the living room. He was still sitting on the couch, flipping through channels, complaining about how there's never shit on. He noticed I was back. "Gimme my fuckin' beer already!"
I stepped into the kitchen, and dropped a few pills into one of them. I sat down on the couch next to my father. "Atta'boy!" He said. "Take a swig with'er dad fer once, eh?" I politely declined. "Fuckin' pussy," he snarled. He began chugging. He downed bottle after bottle, flipping more and more quickly through channels the drunker he grew. He finally grabbed the last bottle. The top came off easily, since I had already opened it, but he was too drunk to care. He downed the entire thing in five seconds flat. A smile spread across my face. After a few minutes, his eyelids began to droop. He started to snore.
I got up and walked over to the tool cabinet and grabbed the largest hammer I could find. I slowly walked back over to my step-father, and looked down at him sleeping.
"Time for you to pay for what you've done."
I completely lost control. I began to swing, and swing, and swing, each swing causing a visceral crunch to erupt from his head, splattering more and more blood, skull fragments, and brains all over the couch. I kept swinging and swinging until the crunches turned into a sickeningly mushy, squishy sound, like when you schlop your hand into a pile of still-wet mud. Still, I kept swinging. 15 minutes had passed before my adrenaline finally faded and I took in what I had done.
My step-father no longer looked human. Everything below the neck still looked fine, but I can't say the same about everything above the neck. What remained of his head was now a horrifying pile of blood, skin, brain matter, and fragments of his skull, splayed out over the back of the couch, and falling onto the carpet behind it. Blood was everywhere. It completely showered his and my own clothes, and the hammer I still tightly grasped in my hand was covered from top to bottom in a shiny coat of blood. I calmly walked over to the kitchen, and picked up the phone. I dialed 911, and told them that my parents were dead. I immediately hung up the phone. I walked back to the kitchen and looked down at my step-father again. My masterpiece. I couldn't help but smile at what I had done. I began to laugh. I laughed hysterically for a solid minute before I suddenly stopping. Then I just stood their, smiling at the pile of head remnants, blood-soaked hammer still tightly grasped in my hand, until the cops came busting down my door. Even with all the shouting and sirens around me, all I could think about was how great it felt to kill.
Submitted June 11, 2018 at 08:12AM by coreynj