Walking the Line

*Warning: This story contains violence, murder, a sick sense of humor, and a little love. Continue… if you dare ;)*

Bang Bang

Chapter 1

I cocked my gun and stared at my -now ex- boyfriend with cold eyes.

“So tell me Michael, how exactly did you think seeing Shauna behind my back was a good idea?” I asked, tracing his jaw with my gloved index finger. His small brown eyes were wide in fear and he was making sounds in the back of his throat like he was choking. Fool. I wouldn’t choke him. That takes too long.

“Liz, I-“ He started,

“Wrong answer.” I cut him off, pulling the trigger. The gun shot shook the walls in his house. He lived on a farm, which was nice- for me. His closest neighbor is a mile away. I took a moment to look at him. He looked pathetic even in his death. Shauna was already dead. “Someone” cut her breaks and she crashed her car. Poor girl. Maybe she shouldn’t of used me to get to my boyfriend, then whore herself around with him.

I quickly cleaned up his little scuffle (he couldn’t even fight like a man), and whiped out my footprints on my way out. Michael’s parents were away for the weekend, trying to repair their failed relationship, and they didn’t even know about me. He was worried they wouldn't approve. They'd be smart not to. My parents won't suspect anything- my mom’s dead and my dad’s dead for killing my mom. I cover my tracks, and no one would ever think the poor foster girl who’s staying with the Pastor’s family would do such a thing. She’s such a sweet girl, after all. Wouldn’t harm a fly.

But the thing is, I’ve harmed far worse than a silly little fly. I guess you could say I’m a bit complicated, but I’ll do my best to explain.

My name is Liz Maybeth. I’m seventeen years old, and in two weeks, I’ll be eighteen and on my own. When I was twelve years old, I watched my mother’s murder in the dining room. Maybe it was shock, maybe something else, but I calmly walked into the kitchen, tears streaming down my eyes, and grabbed the biggest and sharpest knife I could find. I paused for a moment, remembering all the times my father had threatened to kill me with the very same knife. Then I turned around, walked towards the coward who was still kneeling by mother’s now cold body, gun in his hands. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t hesitate. I slit his neck. Hard. He muttered something about me being a bitch, and then died.

I’m still not sure how my twelve-year-old self managed to pull it off, but I remember moving the weapons so it looked like they got into a fight and my mom slit his throat, and him shooting her in his last seconds. My father’s tipped over beer bottles helped. I called 911, crying, saying that “mommy and daddy got into a fight and there was a bang”. After a couple of days and being questioned, I was moved in with the Claytons in a small town about 50 miles away. Unlike most foster-kids, I never moved around in foster homes. I’ve stayed with the Claytons since my parents’ deaths, but soon I’ll be free.

Yes, I am messed up. I’m weird and twisted and in desperate need of therapy, but I’m all right with that.

My father was a terrible man. He was a drunk, abusive, and above all, a murderer. Not just of my mom, either. He was sick. Maybe that’s where I get it from.

My father was the first person I killed, but he obviously wasn’t the last. When I was fourteen, I had my first boyfriend. His name was Justin, and one day, he invited me to a party. It was one of those small town parties, in a crowded house with cheap drugs and beer. He thought it’d be fun to get me drunk and take advantage of me. When I woke up in his car the next morning, bruised and with dried tears on my face, I knew I was going to kill someone again. It was terrible. I felt terrible. Dirty, even.