"maybe"

As I stand here looking at my body covered in blood in the mirror of my room I can't help but recall a now fond memory, the last memory I had with my mother until he killed her. He stabbed her fifteen times in her torso and then shot her 4 times in the face. I would remember, I was there. Three years ago when my father brutally murdered my mother in front of me and ran away, after that incident I was in deep shock. It took me a year and a half to finally accept what had happened. I was fourteen then, lonely, weak, and a helpless little girl but now, standing in front of this mirror, in this room, covered in blood I can't help but think that it's finally time. It’s time to get revenge. I move around my room, daydreaming about how in two days I’m going to kill the man who ruined my entire goddamn life because he wanted drugs.

It's Friday and a red moon, the perfect night to kill someone. A year ago, I saw him on the streets, wasted, then I followed him home to see where the hell he lived because the police did no shit to find him. I killed his drug dealers in the last six months, all 3 of them, and now, it's time for the king himself. I go through the now familiar streets and reach in front of his house. The lights are off but he’s in there. Every Friday night he likes to stay in and regret his decisions in life, of killing her wife, doing drugs, being an addict, and leaving his child. It's the only night he’s not shit-faced. It's the only night he’s sober. It's the only night you’re going to get answers from him. It's the only night you're going to kill him. The only night you can kill him.

I lean towards the door being cautious and knocking on the door. Knock. Knock. Knock. I hear rustling almost immediately and step aside. The moment he opens the door I push him inside, covering his mouth with my hands and hitting his head to make him pass out.

It's almost after fifteen minutes that he finally wakes up. I didn't tie him up, I'm not weak, I'm not scared. Once he gains consciousness his eyes are in complete shock, horrified. He stutters, trying to say something, anything. “Wh- what are you doing here?” he finally gets out. I could only laugh at his question. “You shouldn’t be here,” he asks again, standing up. He stalks towards me but I don't budge, I look him in the eyes and take a step towards him, making him stop. He finally realizes he’s not in charge here. He takes a step back and sits on the sofa again. “How is this possible…,” he mutters. It makes me laugh harder. “Well I guess anything is possible then, isn't it?” I finally say.

“Am I dead-” I cut him off before he could finish that sentence. What he did was straight-up psychotic. He killed his wife and then ran away, taking all the money with him while he was at it. “I wish you were,” I shout at him. “You are regretting how you killed your wife, the wife who loved you, who cared about you, who cared about you so much that she never said anything, she wanted you to be happy, for us to be a happy little family but the only night, the one time she refused to pay for the idiotic drugs you go around and kill her! And you should regret it infact.” tears start to pool in my eyes and I say, “you fucking killed her in front of your 14-year-old daughter,” I say without any emotions yet so many of them it scared me.

“And I'm ashamed of what I did”

“How?” I order.

“I’ve been living in thi- this guilt for the past three years.” He emphasizes.

“By being doing drugs.” I deadpan.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you have any idea how much I and mom suffered that night?” say to him, feeling tears pooling in my eyes. You are stronger than this! I remind myself.

“I think it’s my time.” he suddenly whispers. He looks me in the eyes and says, “that's why you’re here, aren't you?” he questions.

“Yes.” I reply. I don't know how I should be responding to that. The emotions are flooding in. I feel like I'm going to break into a million pieces and when he says that it's as if I'm breaking and the pieces are stiched back together just to break again.

“Will we be going to the same place?” he asks, a faint smile on his face, he looks relieved, to finally end it all, to finally die.

“I'm not sure,” I say back. “I never went where mom did, I- I don't know why.” I finish that last sentence with tears dripping down my eyes. Three years ago, when my mom died that night, I was shot as well. I bled o death, in that cold, dark room of my room, in front of my mirror, covered in blood.

“Maybe we’re both bound to go to hell.” I look at him.

“Maybe.” he says, and that's the last word he ever says.