Step 1: Survive
I have been through a lot in my mediocre life but the hardest thing for me to do was to survive. My dad was an abusive alcoholic. He always abused my mother and me. I remember one night I got home and they were fighting. I was just up the street at a friends house but I could hear from a good ways away that I was in for something I would regret. As I walked in, my mother was lying on the floor holding her legs. I didn't see my dad right away, but I wish I had. He came out swinging with a pan in one hand, and his fist balled in the other. I was hit with the pan. As soon as I hit the floor my mother panicked. She ran towards me but not fast enough. My father was already recoiled and ready for another swing. Blackout.
When I came to I was in a hospital. Apparently I had a severe concussion, head trauma, blah blah blah. I wasn't going to die so my father didn't care. Personally I don't think he would have cared if I did. My mother was a mess though. Beaten and bruised, the doctor asked her what happened and she said she was carrying me to the house, from the car, when we fell down the stairs. The least she could have done was come up with a proper lie right? My dad felt no remorse to this. It came natural to him. To beat his wife and seven year old son came as natural as other people drink coffee. I hated him, but what could I do? I was a kid.
Eventually he calmed down, or we stayed out of his way. We learned how things worked in his house. Until of course I moved in with my grandparents. I got to taste a little bit of joy with that. My grandparents always treated me nice, and they knew my mother was being treated horribly, but what could they do. She didn't wanna leave him, so there wasn't much they could do. My mother stayed with him until she died at the age of 38. I was 18. At this point I wanted to murder him, but I wasn't ready. Like I said, this is just step one.
Having such a shitty childhood I took matters into my own hands. If God put me on this planet, he could very well take me off. I tied the noose above my mothers grave, on an Oak tree that grew over. As I climbed the tombstone I realized that no one ever really cared enough about my mom. They pitied her sure. They always felt sorry for her, but no one really offered their help. I climbed off the tombstone and wrote on my mothers grave with a rock. (I'll see you soon.) Then I climbed back up and out the rope around my neck. As a final word I whispered to the world. "Let's see how you do without me." Then I leaped. As I lay hanging there, gently feeling my fate tighten, I couldn't help but think if this was the way that all people will end up. Driven by madness to such a degree that they're reduced to suicide. Before I could think any more though, I heard a snap. Then I blacked out.
When I awoke, the first thing I noticed was how dark it was. It was obviously night time, but at that point in time I thought I was in the bowels of hell. I looked around and saw my mothers tombstone, cracked in half from where I must have landed on it. The crack separated her name and date of death from my message to her. Apparently it wasn't my time. The Oak tree that had stood there for so many years before I was born had cracked in half. Maybe it was lighting, maybe it was faith, but I know this much now. It was just the beginning of Step 1.
After that I tried several other suicide attempts that you would believe to be bullshit, but I believe to be historical. I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, passed out, and when I woke up I was surrounded by vomit. I loaded a 6 mm pistol and pointed directly in my mouth. I pulled the trigger five times, (Which was all the bullets I had for it) and they all turned out to be duds. If there was a way to kill myself that I didn't know about, I would have tried it. I couldn't bare living in a world where all I had to rely on was my father. My grandparents passed shortly after my mother did and I knew it was my father that killed her. I couldn't prove it, and there was nothing else I could do about it, but I knew. Of course, if he killed her, it would only be justifiable if someone returned the favor.
After inheriting my grandparents house, I settled in nicely. I had to come up with a plan to get rid of my father for good. No more abusing anyone. He had to die. So I came up with something. I would sneak into his house and find his loaded shotgun he always keeps in the closet. Then I would wait for him to come home from the bar, and as soon as I laid eyes on him, I would pull the trigger. Now you may ask yourself, what kind of human being could consciously consider premeditated murder? If it makes you feel any better, don't consider me human. Trust me, things get a lot worst.
So I waited. Sure enough at three o clock on the dot he rolled into the house drunk as can be. I lifted the barrel and waited for him to circle the corner. At first site I pull the trigger. POW! Louder than I thought it would be but I hear a thump after. Blood covers the walls. The sickening smell of death quickly enters ever pore in my body. Hopefully the neighbors have no idea what just happened. I'm sure the shot was loud, but as abusive as my dad was, I'm sure they won't think anything of it. The mood settles. I lower the gun. As twisted as my mind is at this point, I want to see him. I need to make sure he's dead. Make sure he's suffered for what he's done. I turn the corner to get a full glimpse of him. Or what I thought was him. His new girlfriend Trixie lay there on the ground, gunshot wound to the leg. Apparently he wasn't home, but she was. As she regains consciousness I panic. What will I do, I just attempted to murder my father and shot his whore of a girlfriend. She looks up at me and starts yelling. Again, not worried about the neighbors. What more can I do? I load the gun and this time fire at her head.
I'm long gone before any police arrive. Having worn gloves I don't need to worry about fingerprints. My shoe prints were already all over that house. There was no way I could get blamed for this. My adrenaline was pumping. My feet were racing each other, and all I could think of was going back tomorrow for my father. Of course I never got that chance. As soon as police showed up they accused my dad of first degree murder. He was arrested and put away for a long time. Did I feel bad about all of this? Of course I did. I still didn't get to kill that son of a bitch. But the point is I was still alive and ticking. Survival. Now you know what it's about. Even though I've gotten one kill, that doesn't quite make me a serial killer. That just makes me a murderer. I have 11 more steps to go.