Chapter 1: Run For Your Life
1:16 AM, January 4, 1960
I was seized from my dreamless sleep by a thundering bang seeping through the thin walls of my house. It possessed the subtlety of a firecracker; and it sounded suspiciously like a gun. Not saying a word out of pure fear, I slowly slithered to the carpeted floor of my small bedroom like a large, pale lizard, skin partially illuminated by the cratered orb suspended outside of my window. Suddenly, the silence was pierced by a blood curdling scream coming from the room next to mine. And then another ear-shattering blast. My eyes, wide with terror and shock were glued to the door. Footsteps thudded down the hall. Clomp, clomp, clomp. The intruder was wearing heavy boots, apparently. As panic rushed through my veins like heroin, I jerked my head around, trying to find a place to hide. I'd just made it to my closet, pushing a few dresses in front of me, when the door burst open. The rusty hinges creaked in protest as the wood flew back, slamming into the wall behind it. I held my breath and peered through the tiny opening between the clothes concealing my body. He paused, most likely taking a sweeping glance around the room for any sign of life. Once he'd decided it wasn't worth his time to come looking for me, he turned and started down the hall. I slowly crept out from under the mountain of clothing, tripping on some damn cord. The last thought in my brain before hitting the floor was, shit.
I heard the intruder pounding up the stairs, doubling back to make sure there wouldn't be any witnesses to his actions tonight. I watched in fear and awe as he made his way to me, staring me straight in the eyes, identity safely concealed behind a black ski mask. He raised the gun, ready to unload metal into my head as he took a step forward. By some miracle, he had managed to step on a container of moisturizer, falling back to the ground with a resounding thud. The gun flew out of his hand in slow motion, tumbling to the carpet by my dresser, less than a foot from my hand. I quickly snatched the gun, no clear thoughts running through my head, only instinct taking over. His eyes widened in disbelief as I pointed the gun at his forehead with two shaking hands. He opened his mouth to say something, but I'll never know what his final message was, because I shot him, then and there. Once in the shoulder and once in the head. As soon as it was over, a dark, profound realization overcame me. He was dead. I'd just killed a man. In my house. Then another thought hit me. He'd killed my family. Or had he? I'd only heard two gunshots and one scream. There were 3 other people in my house. My sister, my dad and my mom. No, one of them would've come out and tried to stop this guy, right? Or at least call the cops. Right? I wasn't exactly sure what to do at that moment, so I tore off the man's ski mask. I was eager, yet reluctant to find out the identity of the man who'd killed my whole family so ruthlessly and without any apparent reason. When the black fabric was thrown the ground and his face became clear, tears welled up in my eyes as I shook my head in disgust and shock. It was my dad. My own father. He killed them. I fled the room, bolting down the hall to my parents' room. There was my mother, slumbering peacefully forever. If one ignored the ever-growing red spot over her heart, they'd surely think she was in a deep, beautiful sleep. I couldn't bring myself to touch her, so I only managed a few simple words between my uncontrollable sobs.
"I love you".
I turned my back and ran back down the hall where I'd come from. My stomach dropped as I entered my sister, Lucy's bedroom. She was slumped against the wall opposite the door, blood pouring out of a nasty gash at her right temple. I told her I loved her, as well, and continued on my way back to my bedroom. Stepping over my father's dead body, I bent down and retrieved the mask, throwing it over his face so I wouldn't have to look at it anymore. If I had to see the look in his eyes one more time, I swore I was going to be sick. It wasn't an expression of remorse, sadness or even pain. There was no look. His eyes were empty. Devoid of any expression. They'd been like that when he'd come into my bedroom to slaughter me. His intentions were clear, but his motives were not. Why would he murder our family? He'd always made a point to tell each of us that he loved us everyday, giving us each hugs and a kiss for Mum before he departed for his job at the bank. None of it made sense. But I could ponder everything further later. Snapping myself out of my thoughts, I began to feverishly hurl random clothes into an overnight bag, sweeping my cosmetics and toiletries off of my dresser without even looking to see what I'd packed for myself. I didn't care what I'd bring, as long as I had money. I couldn't stay here much longer. Once I'd gotten everything I thought was necessary, I hastily ran down the hall to my parents bedroom, not daring to look over at my dead mother as I broke into my parents' stash of money in their closet. They'd always told me that if I ever ended up in a situation where I was on my own (like this, except where Dad didn't murder everyone) that I could come in and grab all of the cash. They'd also made it extremely clear that this was for emergencies only, not for going with friends. This was for life or death situations. Well, this was certainly an emergency. Once I'd grabbed what little money there was, I headed for the stairs, coasting my hand along the wooden banister as I sprinted for the front door. I pulled on my winter jacket and boots and stuffed the money into one of the inside pockets for safe keeping. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I stepped through the front door, closing it and sprinted to the one place I knew I'd be safe.
John's house.