I already sensed tonight was different though, but as it turns out would never figure out why. I just casually waited, waited for his glass to empty and his rocking chair to stop creaking upstairs. When it grew a little later I strolled outside to retrieve the bat from the shed, and calmly made my way up to his room. When I entered he was fast asleep in the chair but awoke as I creaked a board on my way in. Groggy and confused, he didn’t even say a word or stand up before I landed the first blow to his skull with a dull crack. It felt odd, but the sound hadn’t made me squirm or reconsider as I had imagined while playing out this scenario hundreds of times in my head. I knew I made good contact, I had been practicing. He started to bleed immediately, but was somehow more coherent after the first shot, and quickly rose to challenge me. He was clearly surprised, he’d sensed none of my daily hatred that I’d learned, from him, to keep hidden. He hobbled towards me on wobbling legs, and I struck him again. This time I swung harder, more confident in the action I was undertaking, and swung low. It was a calculating swing, aimed at the side of his right knee, and it dropped him instantly. He writhed in pain but, surprisingly, didn’t say a word to me or make much of any cries at all. It was a strange silence, he didn’t beg or make threats, just held out his arms in a vain attempt to defend himself. That was the hardest part, finishing him. I swung hard in a downward motion at his head again, but he tried to block that bat, breaking an arm and some fingers in the process. Now defenseless, I swung the bat as hard as I could, his skull producing the loudest crack yet. It was truly grisly, and I wanted it to be over, but I could still hear his labored breathing through the gurgling of blood welled up in his mouth. I gathered strength, raised the bat, and swung one last time. This one finished him, the sound truly barbaric as the bat depressurized his skull, the fracture now gaping, gray matter spilling out amongst the pool of blood collecting on the hardwood floor. I was frozen. The bat fell to the floor from my bloodied hands. I stood over the lifeless and destroyed body, stunned by the reality and relative ease of the brutal murder. Death stared back bluntly, unflinchingly; I have no idea how long I stood there, transfixed.

What had I done? The question was too disturbing and real to ponder. I reversed my train of thought to what to do next. Sense, logic kicked in; I began to clean up. It was extremely disconcerting, like I’d done it before, and more than once. Quickly I washed up, the blood spiraling down the drain a potent reminder of the carnage I left behind in the bedroom. After doing my best to make myself look presentable I [left the bathroom and] walked back through the bedroom, all the while averting my eyes from the murder scene, into the hallway. Without even thinking I headed straight for the cellar and, after rummaging around for a moment, found what I was looking for. I couldn’t even smell the gasoline as I walked through the house, pouring a trail to the front door. When I got outside I remembered that there was a world beyond the house and the horror I’d made inside. When I saw his retriever, that was now without it’s owner and would soon be without a home, for a brief second I felt remorse for him. Then I remembered, it came back to me. How the rage had hit me like a rogue wave, out of the darkness of my surroundings. For this was truly a dark place, and my rage had been just. The guilt of the slaughter a small price to pay for the evil I’d spared the Earth. With that in mind I lit the gas can, threw it through the front door, and stepped back to watch. The old home burned vehemently, the black smoke of my father’s funeral pyre blotting out the pale moonlight.

Years later, I still don’t know why I chose that night. It had actually been one of the better days, relatively speaking. But something inside me had chosen that day, and that was the only question of myself I’d been unable to answer. Erin was away, but then she went away to live with Mom every summer. It was the only time she was happy. We loved each other deeply but couldn’t be happy, even together, in Dad’s house. We both knew what had to be done, even as young as we were. One of my first memories, that still haunts me as no child’s first memory ever should, was waking in the dark to hear Erin’s screaming, slightly muffled. I looked over to her bed and she wasn’t there. I was much too terrified to get up, to go see. Erin being older was always the more courageous one, any courage I’d ever showed was with her by my side, reassuring and secure. Alone in the dark, hearing the pain and fright in her voice, I was paralyzed. Every time Erin came back to our room I would wake up and try to help her. “Are you gonna be okay?” I’d ask, innocent and naïve. She’d just cry and latch on to me, and we’d cry ourselves to sleep in each other’s arms in my bed. As we got older it happened less, then all but stopped. It wasn’t me reaching the pre-teens as I’d originally thought, and would find out. It was likely something much more sick, like she couldn’t provide the young and innocent thrill ride as she once had for him. One night, the last time it happened, when I awoke I gathered the courage to go help her, or at least try. I left our bedroom with no clear plan of action, just to try to break it up and save my sister. When I knocked on the door Erin just started screaming at the top of her lungs, screaming for me to go back to bed. It was too late. In one frightening swirl of motion the door flung open and the bat hit me squarely in the head. I can only remember him hitting me once more before I felt the sting of the blood in my eyes and faded to unconsciousness, my sister’s cries echoing through my head.

I awoke to find myself tied up in the cellar, dried blood caked thick on my skin. I could only see from one stinging eye, but the dank smell of the cellar and damp dirt floor was strong enough that I realized where I was. When I moved my head I knew at once how badly I’d been beaten, and how much pain I was in. The cellar door must’ve been locked or Erin would have been down to see me. Although for all I knew it was still the middle of the night. It was so dark down there, no windows or any way to tell the time of night or day. Dad left me down there, tied up and alone, for what felt like a week. It was at least three days from what Erin’s told me since, during the little we’ve spoken about it. But it was down there in the dark, alone and deep in my mind with nowhere to go, when I realized what had to be done. Absolutely, that’s when I knew, when the rage emerged to follow through. I suppose it shouldn’t have taken that night, all the nights Erin suffered were more than enough, but I was so young. Murder is not on the mind of most young innocents. Then again, mine and Erin’s innocence had been violently stolen. I never thought about the authorities or seeking help in any way, even from Mom. After all, no one knew better what Dad was capable of. Mother was still too terrified to think about, let alone confront the situation. How she’d managed to escape to another life was something we never knew, but we figured it had to be Dad’s decision. Because if he wanted her there, she had no choice. She wasn’t even really there, just a shell of what once may have been a wonderful woman, altered and pitiful. She couldn’t have been of any help. I did contemplate consequences, but concluded the only consequence of murdering our father was that the world would be a better place, and that Erin might be saved, unlike Mom.

How I had hoped Erin would recover mentally. The summers away with Mom had helped a great deal, but every time she returned it was like she died. Any semblance of normalcy she showed, let alone happiness, left her so quickly and completely upon returning to the farm it was as if she’d never left. As if those emotions were foreign to her. As if those summers away were some wonderful dream about another young woman, one who lived a life safely away from all the darkness, pain, and evil of Dad’s farm.