This may not be the best thing to say for this chaspter, but I'll say it anyway: enjoy! :P


We all sat expectantly. Daddy tasted the dinner, chewing it slowly like a food inspector. He swallowed and gave the curt nod. We all dug in. It had been a long day; nobody had seen each other since last nights' dinner.

Lisa was wearing a black leather studded jacket and black jeans. Her hair was topped with the usual short hair-cut, and a dark purple head band. Bart was wearing his usual orange shaggy shirt and jeans. Everybody else was wearing what they've seemed to wear my entire life.

He turned to me. I could feel the bruise on my face throbbing. "I have thought long and hard about what I did last night, Maggie. Do you know what I've decided?"

I shook my head no. Apologize? Not very likely.

"I have decided that we're going to go to your teacher and tell her whatever you got wrong is right."

"But-"

"Don't interrupt!" he slapped my already throbbing cheek, and I raised my hand to protect it. "We're going to tell her how smart you are, and fix this. Now. What is your teachers' name?" he turned my face to his with his meaty hand.

Shouldn't he know? "Mommy. Mommy's my teacher. Didn't you know I was home schooled?"

I looked at Mother. She was shaking her head no, looking at me with wide eyes. Daddy slowly turned his head to her. She stopped and stared. He let go of my face and grabbed the butter knife. Bart and Lisa did nothing but watch, horrified.

I remained frozen. All eyes were trained on that knife. "Marge. Why did you not tell me? Didn't this seem like an important subject to ask me about?"

"I did, Homey," I knew now how terrified she really was. How terrified we all were. Mother didn't call daddy 'Homey' these days unless she was sweet talking him out of something. "I told you a long time ago, yes, but I told you. And ever since then, I thought you knew."

"You thought," he muttered, "YOU THOUGHT?!" he slammed his fists on the table. Then, without hesitation, he turned and punched me.

I could see stars, and a bright light. "Grandma?" I passed out.

3

I came to on the floor. There was screaming. Crashing sounds. After a second, though afterwards I wished I hadn't, my body adjusted to the pain and I heard, "YOU KILLED HER YOU DICK!"

I looked up. The first thing my eyes landed on was my older sister trembling in the corner, all traces of courage gone. She was where I usually hid, but she now looked like the young girl I once knew, the one who used to be "taught" by Daddy. Before she started using me as a practice dummy, finding an excuse so he would stop beating her. So he would start beating me.

Bart and Daddy were standing up, punching each other. And mother… all that I could see was blood on the table. My body ached as I got up, but I had to see this. I walked to her seat. I felt my head snap as I turned. The butter knife Daddy had held was in Momma's chest, right where her heart is. I gasped and turned to Daddy and Bart. They were throwing punches with such force that I could hear the fists hit the receivers' cheek.

I simply stood there, mesmerized. Not yet over the shock, but still knew what was going on. I should run. I should run and never look back.

But of course I didn't. Finally, Daddy threw the hardest punch of the night, the final, making me jump. Bart landed on the floor, bruises already scattered along his face. Some were bleeding. Daddy turned to me.

I don't believe Lisa was over the shock, or would even try to help.

Bart was passed out.

Mommy was dead.

And I was in a room with a homicidal maniac.

"Get the shovel. We bury them now." He spoke through his teeth. His hands were now at his side, dripping with the blood of the ones I had never truly loved.

"What? Bart's still alive!"

"I know that, you stupid-"

"NO! Mommy's dead because of you!"

And I just ran. I didn't know where, I didn't know how I maneuvered outside, but I ran. He didn't follow.

I stopped in front of the Comic Book Store to take a breath. I had nowhere to go. Not really—

Forest. Duh, the forest! Where you have nowhere else to go, and if they haven't cut it down yet, you go to the forest.

I just began to run as fast as my legs would take me inside, and I tried to go deeper and deeper. It was an unwinding maze, made to get lost in. The deeper I went the darker it got, and soon I turned around. There were hoots and whispers all around me, coming closer with each step I took, every turn lead to yet another one, another shadow. I was running blindly now, running from the creatures lurking behind each shadow, ready to tear apart my—

I ran into something. Why should that phase me though, I've run into a lot of things. But this was soft and breathing. I began to scream, though it was more of ragged heaving. Tears were blurring my vision, so I couldn't see who (or what) it was. The image of Mother slumped over with Daddy's butter knife engraved in her chest came to me again and again, foreign and disturbing, like a heavy radio beam that blankets the signal you really want to pick up. I soon stopped struggling and melted into his (who/what's) arms.

3

I immediately snapped out of my mind trick when I heard somebody practically screaming, she was crying so hard, come tramping into the small clearing I had just entered. She ran right into me, the little girl I had just been planning to gut.

She kept stuttering, "H-he k-k-hilled her! He k-killed her!" She looked up at me, first stunned, trying to wipe her eyes, and fell on the ground backing away.

I tried approaching Maggie, and in response she curled up into a ball, muttering "he killed her" under her breath. She began to tremble, from either the cold snap of the wind or fear.

I approached her carefully this time, slowly, like a zookeeper approaching the lion. She was in hysterics by now, and I wasn't heartless, I knew what pain was and still felt like a father at the most awkward of times. Well, I couldn't just leave her like…that.

"Shhh. It's alright," I felt rather awkward (had I not just imagined driving a steak knife into her heart two minutes ago?), but my fatherly side kicked in when she buried her head in my chest. "You're safe now. You're safe now." Deep down, I knew that this wasn't true. No child would cry this hard over such a little thing

(don't)

or run into the forest

(hurt me)

like this. I gathered the child into my arms properly, and, not being able to sweet talk over her dry heaves, settled for resisting the homicidal urge to drive a stake into her soul and held her.

4

I had no idea how long she stayed in my arms, but eventually sniffling replaced the tears. I set her on the ground, revealing her face (it had been such a blur, and she kept covering it). She had a bright purple bruise on her left cheek, and right below it was another swelling clump of raw and exposed flesh, and from the dried blood I knew she'd need medical attention for that. She was wearing a sky blue shirt, with black comfort (or sweat) pants. Instead of a bow, there was a blue ribbon in her hair, keeping the hair out of her eyes.

(And look at his hair! It's dorkier than his brothers'!)

"Now then. Who killed who?"

"Well," she sniffed, "who are you?"

"You may refer to me as Cecil. What happened?"

"I thought she told him! It wasn't my fault! She never told…" I thought she would burst into tears again—if that were possible with how many droplets had already came out of her eyes—but the child gathered her thoughts before going on. "I got a B+ on my test, but I'm home-schooled, so she's my teacher. Daddy said that we'd go and tell my teacher that I was right, though I wasn't, and I told him that Mother was my teacher. He turned and hit me—"

"He what?!"

"He hit me. He does it a lot though, so I'm used to it. Anyways-"

"No, no, nonono. You don't get used to being hit. If your father frigging hits you, you tell somebody who will help. Do you understand?"

She looked at me, like you look at a man who just announced he was temporarily going to rule the world forever (I once knew a man in prison who kept saying that). "Why would you care?" she said rather dazed, "but when he punched me, I fell off my chair and blacked out. When I woke up, he and Bart were in a fight, Lisa was in the corner, and Mommy was dead. He had picked up a butter knife and . . . and stabbed her. I just stood there! I know I should've run, but—but…he knocked Bart out, and was going to make me bury him and Mommy alive!" fresh tears streamed down her face, "and ran here, into you. Now that you've heard my story," she leaned back onto her hands and gave a puzzled look, "have I ever met you before? You look familiar."

"Before, yes. We saw a glimpse of each other when you were…well god, just an infant."

"Then why haven't I seen you since? Been in jail?" She sort of smiled. A joke. It was only meant as a joke. Yet that joke snapped something inside of me, and it took all of my willpower to hold the fury back.

"Actually, yes. Do…you remember Sideshow Bob? If so, you may still not remember me, but I'm his brother. Younger brother, to be exact. No, no! It's OK," She had just gotten up, and was backing away. My plea hesitated her. "I'm not carrying any kind of weapons."

"I—but you! Why didn't you just kill me? I know how much you hated my family," she glared at me now, the look of sincerity and terror gone.

"I didn't kill you because I'm not heartless! And it was my brother who hated you all. He's currently in some part of Italy," I waved it off, "with his family. But if you don't trust me, go back to that homicidal drunk." I knew that this would get her.

"That's not fair," she whispered.

"There's much more in life that isn't fair, dear," I got up, wiped as much of the muck off as I could, and said, "Honestly though. You either go back, where you'll be beaten to death. Or come with a man who is willing to provide you with a home for now. It's your choice, but I need to be going

(not really)

now."

"Wait! Don't leave me!" she ran up to me again, clutching my legs.

Looking down at her, I remembered that, as a child, nobody was there for me. Anytime I would tell Mother or whoever happened to be there would tell me to "get off of my legs and grow up." However, this child just saw her father cruelly kill her mother, so I might as well go easy on her.

"Alright, that's enough. Let's go, shall we?" She sniffed and gave another weak smile. She took my hand (straining to reach it), and began to hum Castle on a Cloud. I began to hum tunelessly, and both our little songs turned into the beginning of The Waltz of Treachery: The Bargain, from Les Mis.

I picked her up and held her instead.


Does anyone think I should continue this? I've written a lot of it out already, but haven't fully finished it yet. I'll keep posting, but I'm only going to finish it if people are actually reading this. :P