It was nothing new to walk into the house and hear Father yelling angrily at my mom. It was also not uncommon to hear her retaliate either now. Since I started school, my mom had started growing concerned about how Father's doings would affect my school life. Her paranoia had finally gotten to the point where she actually found it in herself to say something about it. For the past few months, I've heard her giving Father countless chances to stop or she would get the police involved and countless times he had ignored her threats.

As I walked into the house after school, I immediately regretted it this time. They were arguing again, but this time I could tell Father had been drinking. He wasn't completely drunk, but he wasn't exactly sober either. I stood in the doorway for a bit, listening to them argue in the living room.
"It's illegal," I heard my mom yell.
I heard Father huff at that. "You haven't had a problem with it in the past. What makes now so different?"
"It's dangerous. And this has an effect on our son."
"That doesn't mean shit to me. What stupid children think about the boy doesn't mean anything."
"And if their parents say anything to the cops?" my mom questioned.
"I'll simply have them removed," Father's response came nonchalantly.
My mom laughed in disbelief. "You can't just kill everyone that becomes an issue."

I started walking quietly to the staircase. I knew how the argument normally goes from here on. It'll end with Father hitting my mom. That's how it always had. I should have known that it wasn't always going to be the same.
Father was getting angry from the sounds of things. "I do what I like. And no-one will stop me."
"The cops will stop you when I tell them all about the illegal weapons trade. And they'll have a field day when they find out about you hitting our-"
My mom's words were cut off by a gun shot. In surprise I immediately ran down the stairs and into the living room.

My mom was bleeding badly from the gunshot wound in her stomach as she shuffled back on the floor, getting away from Father. Father held a gun in his hand. I looked at the scene in front of me in horror. This was not how it was supposed to be.
Father noticed me and looked straight at me. He was smiled and threw the gun my way. I was so focused on the gun as it landed at my feet that I had not noticed him walk up to me until he was right behind me.
"Pick up the gun," he practically ordered me to, which I followed out of fear. "Good boy." He pointed at my mom as he stood right behind me. "Now kill her."
I was conflicted. My heart was telling me to not listen to Father while my brain, ruled by fear, was telling me to just listen and do as he says. Father must have noticed my inner conflict because he squeezed my shoulder that he had dislocated only yesterday hard.
"Do it!" he repeated, squeezing harder.
As I winced in pain, I made up my mind. I closed my eyes and did what I had to do.

There was the sound of a gun shot and the metallic smell of fresh blood hit my nose. Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked at what I had done. Father sounded proud of me, going on about being a natural, though I could not quite hear him as all my attention focused on what had happened. My mom lay dead with a bullet in her brain between the eyes. A bullet I had put there. I should've felt sad, I should've felt remorse or even guilty. But I didn't feel any of that. That day I actually discovered that I love to shoot, that I live to shoot.

That day, the day I killed my mom, was my first of many kills... And I was only ten...