Serial K

When I was seven, my mother died.
Not from cancer. Not from any other illness. Not from any sort of accident.
My father bashed her head in then cut her open on our kitchen table so we could see what a human body looked like on the inside.
I don't think this really affected my development. By that age, I'd already decided I preferred using knives over guns and poison. I don't remember being particularly upset. Carter wasn't either. The only one crying was Dante, but seeing as he was only a few hours old he didn't really count.
Later that afternoon, two graves were dug underneath the willow tree. One for my mother, and one for Dante's.I never figured out why my father did what he did that day. Dante's mother died giving birth to him. My father got angry. Blamed my mother.
Maybe he wanted her to live because he liked her. But probably he wanted to keep her alive so he could kill her herself.
Over the next eighteen years, five more graves were dug as, one by one, my half -siblings failed him.
I, on the other hand, delighted him.
By the time I was twenty five, I'd killed eighty four people. My father put me on a pedestal for the whole family to be proud of.
Then the unthinkable happened.