The day my parents died started out as an average day.
I'll start by explaining my family. You see, I'm adopted—I'm not it saying it hurt any less when my parents died because they weren't my blood parents, but either way—I'm not blood-related to my family.
I also have an older brother—he actually is their blood son. He isn't one of those children that get jealous of their siblings—he's always been nice to me, sometimes bordering on overprotective (I'm not even allowed to crush on boys!)
I have no memories from before I was four—no memories of my blood parents or family, or history, nothing. All I have left of whoever I was then is a broken silver pocket watch. My earliest memory is of the orphanage I lived in until I was five.
That was when Kelly and Nate Carson, along with their four-year-old son Jake, decided to adopt me. Kelly had always planned for two kids—a boy and a girl—but complications during her first birth rendered her infertile.
That was where they got the idea to just adopt. It was even better that it was me, because I had no memories of any prior family and they would be the only family I'd ever had.
I loved my family, because the orphanage was lonely and because they were so warm. They were sunshine on a cold day.
And so I lived with them in suburban New York for the next ten years, and went to elementary, then middle, then high school. I grew up a little isolated, because of the fact that it was sort of obvious I was adopted, considering I was blonde and blue-eyed, while the rest of my family was brunette and brown-eyed.
Because of this, I walked home alone from another ridiculously stressing day of high school, on a lukewarm September day. Sophomore year was overly stressing, and occasionally I wished I could just stop.
They say to be careful what you wish for.
When I opened the door to my house, I was hit with the intense smell of…iron?
It was terrible. I mean, considering I lived in New York, I'd smelled worse things, but this just made me sick. I quickly walked towards the living room, gagging...
…And stopped at the large puddle of red that spilled out from the entrance. My first thought was that it was blood.
Yeah, I know, paranoid, right? But can you blame me? My favorite book series was Supernatural, and my favorite TV show was Sherlock. My mind was a naturally bloody place. Of course I knew all of that wasn't real, but I was still a diehard fan.
I don't know if I regret that now, or if I thank my lucky stars the random book I decided to buy on a whim in a bookstore happened to be Supernatural.
Careful to avoid stepped on whatever the red stuff was, I walked to the front of the entrance.
The scene that greeted me was inappropriately morbid for the sunlight streaming in through the windows. My father lay on a couch, his eyes wide open, his blue shirt red with blood—or rather, purple. My mother lay on the floor next to him, her white dress ripped and equally red, her face a mask of fear.
My brother stood over them, his green hoodie spattered with blood, his back to me and a bloody steak knife in his hand.