"Just close the damn door when you are working. No one is thrilled by the screams, just you." My mother sometimes had her way with words. It was unbelievable. She was the only one who could bring some order to this fucked up house.

And really, in a moment I heard a loud door slam, and the screams muffled. I was glad- I honestly didn't share my father's love for human screams and shouts of pain. But of course, we let him have his moment. Better them than us, right? I peeled myself off the wall, closing my eyes. When did this mess happen? I'll tell you when. When I was born, at least for me. Tell you what, I should have never been born. At least not in this family. But who knows, maybe I was just like them. Hell, I knew I was just like them. Because the screams, as much as they weren't pleasant, weren't that bothersome either. Actually I was quite used to it by now. I walked out of my room that consisted of a simple bed, even simpler furniture and one small picture of my brother that was smiling at me from my drawer. I closed the door shut as gently as possible, trying to not make any noise. Because in this house, when they knew you existed, you got to expect something you would not exactly like.

It didn't help.

"Samantha" my father's head stuck out of the door of his operation room, and in every other situation it would be comical. In this situation, however, it was frightening. He was covered in blood (human blood. Someone else's blood. A blood that, just moment ago, was flowing in someone's veins.) and the familiar gleam in his eyes made me shiver. Maybe if I pretended I wasn't there, he wouldn't notice me and just go away. Maybe he would give up…

He didn't.

"Samantha." He said, his hand covered in blood sticking out, one finger curled. "Come here." H held a maniac smile on his savage yet intelligent face, intelligent because fuck that man had an IQ, and savage because so many murders leave their mark. Or how he called it, experiments. Thank you, I didn't want to be a part of it. Thank you very much, really.

I moved myself slowly, and suddenly my feet were heavier than before. Was that fear? No, I've never felt fear before. Disgust, maybe. Yeah, that would be it. Or was it a mixture of both? I never understood my feelings good enough to explain what I was feeling.

He opened the door more for me to step in, and the smell of burnt flesh hit my nose. I sniffled the place, blood and bodies everywhere. "You should clean up in here sometimes." I told him casually, pretending not to be shaken by the enormous amount of cut up people in here. Maybe I really wasn't. Like I said, I could never understand my feeling completely.

Instead of answering, he sighed, as if I I was hopeless (which I, in a matter, was. I never cared for anything and anyone but myself. Maybe that was the problem.) and ld me through the bodies. I gulped. I wasn't expecting to see all of it. At least not today.

Not on my special day.

"You are officially seven. This means you are old enough to see what family business is like." He said, and I couldn't miss the hint of pride in his voice. Was he really taking pride in this horrifying corpse exposition? If I was him, I would be having trouble sleeping at night. I shivered. "Here, look at what I'm working on." He led me closer to one of his tables.

I felt like puking. Honestly, my stomach turned upside down, and I felt bits of my breakfast on my tongue. In front of me was laying a man, eyes half closed and mouth agape. He was white, almost grey and his skin sported bruises and holes from needles. But what stroke me the most was that one of his arms was missing. Instead, there was a white bone and bits of meat peaking out of his shoulder.

This wasn't done for scientifically purposes anymore. This was pure madness. Just for fun.

For fun.

To tear someone's limp just for fun.

I wanted to curl up and die. This certainly wasn't my kind of fun. No, screams were okay. Dead bodies, too. But this… done by my father… I was horrified. For the first time in my life, I felt fear.

He picked up scalpel. "Look." He sounded just as thrilled as a little kid playing with his favorite toy. This was his favorite toy. Humans were his favorite toy. "I'm going to make a hole in his fauces to see if he will breathe through it when I stop him from breathing through his nose."

He was mad. He was literally mad. His eyes were lit up by a strange glimmer and I wanted to scream for him to wake up. But it would be useless anyway. H e was a madman, and I was his daughter. A daughter of a madman. Of an insane genius. I suddenly knew I didn't want to be. I didn't want to be his daughter, to continue the family business of killing people for fun.

So I frantically turned around, hitting the screaming man as my father performed the operation, and stumbled upon some other corpses, burnt and torn apart, to find the exit. My father was so engrossed in his job that he didn't even notice I was running away.

I opened the door and didn't even bother to close it, filling the room with smell of corpses.

"Hey, close the fucking door, I told you!" My mother yelled out, but this time, on one answered. My father was too much into cutting someone's throat open to notice, and I was too shell shocked to even breathe, let alone close the door.

She walked out of the living room, in her beautiful long dress, with hair done without any strand out of place, and he casual I-will-murder-you expression. "Close the door." She sai rather calmly, the let her eyes widen at the sight of me. I flew past her, my arms pushing on her to get her out of the way, my dress flowing behind me along with my braid of red hair. My eye wide, mouth opened, I looked like an image of afraid. Which I was. And I didn't like the feeling.

I pushed the main door open with all my strength, and having it moving under my fingers was my biggest relief. I ran out of it, bare feet and cold, not even old enough to cross the streets without holding my mother's hand (or at least that's how other kids were. I never held my mother's hand once in my life. Not that I didn't want to… she never let me.) yet presented with numerous dead bodies and one half dead.

I stopped only when I was far enough from home, on the pitch black streets of Mitras, with only lights from inside the houses illuminating the streets. It was far too late. And I was alone. And cold. And…

Blood.

Dead.

Cuts.

I closed my eyes, shaking violently, even though I told myself it was from the cold. It wasn't. It was from the images, the blood on my hands, the blood around me, the smell the pain the screams and ohmygod I was going to die-

I opened my eyes. Wide. And exhaled. Inhaled. And exhaled. Repeated. The blood on my hands disappeared, along with the smell.

Things happened. Shit happened. Hell, my worst fucking nightmare happened. So what. I knew, deep inside, it was destined to come and bite me in the ass, my family, one day. It happened now. So what. I was prepared, I just didn't know it. I straightened my back. The man was weak. He got caught, he was weak to let himself die. In fact, every single body there belonged to a weak soul. Eat, or be eaten.

Kill or be killed.

That's what I learned.

That's what I believed in.

Unfortunately, I realized that the road I was walking wasn't the one in direction to my home. And even more unfortunately, I only realized it on stairs. Why were they so long?