That was 11 years ago. I was 7 at the time. My sisters, 11 and 14.
My father was driving, but he had too much to drink. One last time. My mum was next to him, shouting, scolding. A typical Saturday night, you could say.
We were in the countryside and he didn’t see the jaywalker, crossing between 2 fields. He hit him first; the guy flew high, and probably died right away. I don’t remember. I can’t.
Then our car slipped along the road and into a field. It flew, and did many turns midair. When the car finally stopped, I was the only one crying.
That was 11 years ago.
What I didn’t know at the time was that my father had a mistress. I’ll never knew if my mum was aware. But that bitch-the mistress, not my mum-found nothing better to do than appropriate the wreckage of the car as a souvenir.
That should have been mine. Even at 7, I knew that. Everybody knew.
Today I’ve turned 18. I now have the right to kill, to take what is due to me, and to make her pay hers.
I’ve prepared this for 11 years. First, there were thoughts. But soon enough, around 10, they became drawings, paintings, writings. Then plans. I’ve never been more excited by anything for my entire life.
And nothing can stop me.
Not even that call I got this morning. It was my GP. I completely forgot about it, but about 3 weeks ago, one morning, I went to the loo and... well, I’m not gonna show you a picture, but there was blood. Brown, dried. I knew it wasn’t a good sign...
On the phone the doctor said “cancer”, then “stomach” and then also “stage four”. I have to show up tomorrow for urgent surgery, he said. Else my liver is gonna cry too, and I’ll probably not “make it”.
But make it where? For whom? With whom?
The surgery might save my body, but what about the rest? What about my soul? So what’s your point, doc.
All my family is gone. The only thing I’ve ever dreamt of is tonight.
Getting back what is mine. And make a dent in her skull.