Justice

Ch. 1

I moved to Augusta, Maine with my mother after my father died. It was right before my senior year of high school.

My father was an evil man.

He was an alcoholic, and he hit my mother and I. Constantly. My mother blamed it on his drunkenness, but I knew that deep inside, a sober part of him found joy in abusing us.

One day, after coming home from my job (I had a paid internship as the assistant to California's local celebrity news anchor over the summer), I found my mother on the floor of the kitchen, curled into a ball and sobbing endlessly.

When I asked her what had happened, she said nothing, but showed me her face. It was bloodied and bruised, no doubt from the works of my father.

I confronted him (as he was lying in bed in the next room), and he denied any relation to my mother's poor state. He hiccuped. He smelled like whiskey.

An argument ensued, to which it ended by him laying a blow right across my face. He proceeded to beat me senseless. My mother ran into the room, pushing him off of me, and in my blurry vision, I could still make out him slapping my mother.

I got up, furious, and grabbed the closest thing to me: a box cutter that my father kept on his nightstand for opening packages he got in the mail.

He saw me and turned around, ready to strike, but I was too quick for him. I lunged at him, plunging the box cutter deep into his abdomen.

He looked up at me, eyes wide, and for a second, I could see what looked like an apology.

But then, of course, he fell over, landing on the box cutter and deepening the wound. He coughed and sputtered, blood dribbling out of his mouth and spraying the off-white paint on the wall.

After he was dead, my mother looked at me in shock. She'd been frozen since the moment I stabbed him.

Sure, he was abusive and drunken, but he was still the man she'd loved since before I was born.

She started to cry, and she crawled over to my father, rubbing his back and grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. She cried into it for a while, as I stood there, dumbfounded at what I'd just done.

Back then I was an amateur. I still felt guilty when it happened. But since then, I've killed more people, and I'm happy to say that I feel no remorse in seeing them dead by my doing.

You see, I kill for a reason. Some people do it for pleasure, some out of spite.

But I kill as a favor to everyone. I rid the world of people such as my father, the people that don't deserve to live.

That celebrity news anchor I mentioned? He was an asshole to me. To everyone in the building. He reminded me of my father, minus the physical abuse. But believe me, he was just as evil. I could see right through his television façade.

So I made his death look like a suicide.

I even left a note, written perfectly in his penmanship, which I had learned by examining papers from his office.

People took his death terribly, as he was a beloved local celebrity, but I knew that I did them a favor.

There was a coach at my old high school.

He didn't hesitate to show favoritism towards his better athletes. He separated us into two groups, which he called the 'All-Stars,' and the 'Pansies.' I was a devoted pansy.