July 7th

May 2

I remember that day all too clearly. I was 12, and I was prying the boards off my window, while my dad was asleep in the living room, or at least that's what I'd thought. "Hiroki!" I heard his deep, booming voice behind me. "You disobedient little punk!" He was directly behind me, I could tell. I turned around, fear consuming me. He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, his face right up to mine, his amber eyes filled with rage and hatred. I had to fight back. . . And I could. I slowly moved my hand as subtly as possible to my back pocket, where I'd concealed a pocketknife. The minute my hand was in the pocket, and I had a firm grip on the handle, I quickly pulled it out, causing it to flip open on it's own. The blade hadn't hit my father, but he dropped me, clearly alarmed. "How about that, you fat, ugly, bastard!" I yelled at him, lunging forwards and stabbing him in the foot. He let out a blood curdling yell and I scrambled back, startled, leaving the knife still lodged into his foot. My mother quickly rushed to the scene, and that's when it happened. "Rodger, are you alright?" She asked frantically. "Shut up, you stupid bitch!" My father yelled, quickly ripping the knife out of his foot, and slashing it back towards my mother. The razor sharp blade cut straight across her neck. I could only watch in fear and horror, paralyzed as she fell to the ground, slowly bleeding to death. I couldn't see through the tears clouding my vision, and I could barely breathe. "Now listen here, son." My father began to say. "No one hears anything about this, unless you want to join your mother." I said nothing, only staring at my mother's bloody corpse. And that was it. I'd never see, or even speak of her again. My father dragged the body out of the room, and from then, I assumed he must've hid all of the evidence, because he never got caught or arrested.