My father always told me that things always happen for a reason, and that whilst kind and just, life could be cruel in her vendettas. It was not yet a week after my seventeenth birthday that he started acting strange. Father would follow me around for no apparent reason, he would stare at me during meals, and the mad glint in his eyes made me nervous. Whatever he was planing, I probably didn't want any part of it.
I had been called down to the clinic under the guise of the yearly physical. As I approached the building, I became increasingly anxious, and every one of my instincts was telling me to run the opposite way. However, drawn by curiosity, I ignored it. Upon arrival, no one was there. I opened my mouth to call out, only to have a chloroform soaked rag clapped over my lower face. I was unconscious before I could utter a single sound.