Focus

When I was born everything was perfect. Or so I'm told from old maids or guards considering I have no memory of this. It's almost impossible for me to believe and a part of me is convinced that my that my father paid people to tell me what he made. Back then, my father owned a law firm that rapidly started spreading around the country like a virus with plans of moving it overseas. I've been told that after the law firm started growing, my mother and father got happily married and also shortly after that my mother got pregnant with me. They wanted our family to have the best. I've been told that, because of that fact, we moved into an immense house including fifty two acres of land. Now, seventeen years later I live in the same house. Only now, multiple layers of dust cover ever single touchable surface. Nightmares stab through my conscience every night, although they're more memories than nightmares. Thoughts of me taking my fathers silver pistol from from the top drawer of his bedroom nightstand, pressing the cool metal into my mouth until I feel it touch the back of my throat, and slamming my index finger against the trigger. Those flood my mind during the day. Or maybe thoughts of taking that same pistol, pointing it towards my alcoholic and bankrupt father whose in denial about his law firm currently collapsing. That same father who blames his only daughter for all of his problems. Then pull the trigger. Perhaps it would make up for all the dozens of times his palm forcefully connected with my face. Or maybe a gun doesn't need to be involved at all. All it takes is one knife from the far drawer of the kitchen to end it... Then I would be able to join my mother, inside wherever the after life is. These are all of my last thoughts before that letter came. The letter that included a contract consisting of one hundred pages with words printed front and back. The letter that read information about participating in a trial. That's when everything changed.