AN: I know what some of you are probably thinking: "Oh my god Shemarauder, another story?" I know! I know. I have so many that are unfinished, but I couldn't help it! So don't be mad and instead enjoy my magical writing abilities. Besides I will finish all of my stories eventually, it's just gonna take a while.

I stared down at my purple converse wondering, not for the first time, why I was alive. My life had no meaning. Nobody cared about me except maybe my mother. Even then she rarely showed it because my father would punish her when she did.

My father. He's the reason my life was a complete hell. He hated me the minute I was born. All because he wanted a son. This was a fact he reminded me of every single day, either when I was walking passed him to escape to the "safe" place that was my room, or when he would beat me till I pass out.

There was nowhere for me to escape to. He never signed me up for school, which then led him to believe I was stupid. That, thankfully, wasn't true. My mother taught me how to count, and how to read. She gave me pens and paper so I could practice how to read and write. I did my best to keep them hidden but father found out about it. That was the worst beating I've ever gotten.

I had no friends because I was never allowed to go outside. I was confined to my room, and only came out to quickly grab something to eat and drink before I raced back up to my room. If I got lucky father wouldn't see me. Whenever he did see me he would scream and throw things at me. Sometimes he would chase me down so he could beat me again, for absolutely no other reason then for breathing.

When I was younger I would ask my mother, "Why is daddy so mean? Why does he hit me?". She would just give me a watery smile and say, "It's his way of showing he loves us."

I didn't believe it then, and I definitely didn't believe it now.

With a near silent sigh I looked up from my converse to examine my room. It was basically bare. My mattress was filthy from years of use and never changing the sheets. A small lamp was sitting on the floor against the wall, but the bulb went out years ago and I wasn't stupid enough to ask for a new one. There was a small closet where I hid all of my books under mounds of clothes.

Every day I wore the same outfit. A t-shirt with black pajama pants and my converse. If I was cold then I'd throw on my black sweatshirt. They were my favorite pants. Mother found them at some store called Hot Topic. They were all black, but on the left leg there was a word. The pair I had on said Batman.

With slow movements I silently opened my door. I learned many years ago that any noise would set my father off. It made going to the bathroom that much harder, but it seemed to be the one thing he won't get worked up over.

When I was finished with my business I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror. All I saw were hollow grey eyes and unkempt dirty-blonde hair. It's the same thing I saw every day. Seventeen year olds like me were supposed to be enjoying the end of the school year. Not me, no, I was a prisoner in my own home. A place where I was supposed to be loved unconditionally by my parents–

"TINA!"

–but that would never be anything more than a dream.

Exiting from the bathroom I slowly made my way to the living room. My father could be heard cursing up a storm. From the sounds of it he wasn't drunk, and that made it even worse. At least when he was drunk he would tire more easily and would believe me if I pretended to be passed out.

I could also hear my mother trying desperately to talk to him. I respected her for trying to stand up for me, but the only way for me to love her like a child should then she would take me away from this hell hole.

"Robert please! She was only–"

"Shut up!" A loud slap echoed throughout the house. "I am in charge here. You will never try to tell me what to do, ever again. Do you understand me?!"

The sound of something crashing to the floor had me rushing down the hallway. I may not hold a lot of love for my mother, but I hate it when she gets hurt. Especially when she's trying to defend me because then it's partially my fault.

In the living room I came across a sight I had seen several times before. My mother was laying on the ground with an arm thrown out in front of her. Father was standing above her–his chest heaving in anger. The lamp had been the source of the noise. Mother must have fallen into it, and now the broken pieces lay scattered across the floor.

Another difference, however, was the knife he held tightly in his right hand. I have a few scars from it, but he's never taken it out on mom before.

I felt anger well up in my chest. This–This beast of a man attacked his wife. Does he not see the devotion she has for him? Why doesn't he love her? Why doesn't he love me? Because she failed and I was born a girl? Newsflash half of me is his fault so he shouldn't be taking anything out on my mother.

Racing back to my room I dug through my closet until I found the pocket knife mother secretly bought for me. It was nothing special really, just a simple black handle with a two inch blade that swings in and out.

Pinching the edge of the blade I pulled it out until it clicked into place. It was a simple knife. Nothing special, no decorations or shiny silver in the blade itself. None of that mattered though. I loved it. Used it to carve things on my bedroom walls sometimes.

Coming out of my observations I heard a high-pitched scream. Not wasting another second I raced out of my bedroom and froze at the entry way into the living room.

Father was kneeling over mothers body. His arm rose viciously into the air, the knife in his hand now covered in blood, before bringing it back down.

Without my consent my feet started moving towards the horrifying scene. I could see crimson blood pooling around them. There was so much of it already I couldn't wrap my head around where it was all coming from.

I stood directly behind father. The blood was covering the bottom of my shoes and the cuff of my pants. But I wasn't paying any attention to that. I was entranced by my fathers arm going up and down, up and down.

His arm came down one final time. I waited for him to lift it again, but he didn't. Instead his shoulders started shaking. At first I thought he was crying. The thought made me angry–what right did he have to cry?

I suddenly realized my mistake when I heard him chuckle. It was soft at first, like a whisper, but it grew louder and louder until he was cackling up at the ceiling.

His laughter only served to make me even more furious. Crying was one thing, but to hear him laugh about killing his own wife made my vision go red.

Gripping my own blade with absolute surety I took two steps forward. I didn't want him turning around because I knew he was stronger than me, so I quickly grabbed him by the hair, yanked him closer to me, and brought my blade around his head to rest against the side of his neck.

Leaning down to his ear I whispered, "Go to Hell," before wrenching my knife across his neck. My knife cut through his skin as if it were nothing more than butter.

He started making odd choking noises as he fell forward. Mothers body was crushed underneath his, but I couldn't find it in myself to care. I felt no guilt for killing the man who was supposed to be my father. Logically I knew that meant something was wrong with me. People are supposed to feel bad about killing mothers, especially a family member.

Instead I felt…free. No more beatings, no more hiding in my own home, no more bruises, no more listening to my mother trying to defend me and getting her own punishment for it.

Looking down at my hand I saw that it was covered in blood, as was my knife. I slowly swung the blade back into the handle and put it in my pocket. I looted my fathers pockets and pulled out his wallet, phone, and car keys. In my mothers purse I found more money. I left her credit cards because I didn't need those.

Running up to my parents room I dove into their closet and looked around before finding an old jewelry box. Mother said everything inside belonged to my grandmother before she passed away. I put on all of the bracelets and necklaces while shoving the earrings into my pockets. I put one pair into my ears though.

All of the stones were real so I knew they were worth something. I don't know where I was going, but wherever it was I would need money.

Walking around the house made all of the jewelry I was wearing hit against one another. All of the noise made me cringe in wait for my father to yell at me, but nothing happened. I rushed through the house and reveled in my new sense of freedom. Nobody was going to beat me or tell me we can't run away because "daddy loves us".

Grabbing the charger for the phone I went to the front door and took one last look at my house. My eyes were immediately drawn to the dead couple on the floor. I stared at them blankly. I held no sense of loss for them. Instead of crying like any normal seventeen year old would do when faced with their parents deaths, I smiled and locked the door behind me.