A Happy, Younger Me

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  • Dedicated to Luis

        Despite what many people will tell you about serial killers and why they do what they do, I contradict all of them. I wasn’t the sulky, silent child who hid away in the corner – I was the social butterfly. Pretty, smart, accepted by many and only disliked by those jealous of me. I never intended to end up in this situation – no one ever does.

            I grew up in a small country town in South Australia. The most exciting thing that ever happened there was the occasional broken window or stolen purse, the routine things in a small town when teenagers got bored. Hell, the newspaper ran stories about missing animals just to fill their pages. I attended the same primary and high schools as every other average child in the town, enjoyed hanging out at the local café, had the perfect life.

             My parents were model citizens – my father worked on the council board, and my mother helped out at the old folk’s home. I had an older brother who had moved away to university, and a baby sister who I often babysat in the afternoons. We had a seemingly perfect life.

            Then, the problems began. My brother was expelled from the university campus for dealing drugs, and he returned home. His bedroom had been converted into a sewing room for my mother, so he moved into the basement, claiming it as his space. I personally wouldn’t have gone down there for a million dollars, ugh, that place was creepy. He spent his time down there doing God knows what, often having friends over at odd hours of the morning.

            My parents had taken off one day for some charity event, leaving me and my sister home alone with my brother. He was slumped on the couch watching television, and my sister was playing with her Barbie dolls. Someone knocked on the door, and my brother was off the couch like a shot, me following him curiously to the door. Obviously, he was expecting someone, and rather angrily ordered me to go back to the lounge. Of course, me being a younger sister, refused, and he ignored me as he answered the door.

            There was some weird looking teen guy at the door, and I hid behind my brother, the teen instantly creeping me out. His hair was shoulder length and stringy, multiple piercings adorned each ear, and tattoos poked out of his t-shirt sleeves. After a few quick words, he followed my brother down to the basement, and I returned to the TV, not interested in their conversation.

            I’d been watching an old spy movie for about ten minutes when a loud bang reverberated through the house. Bolting up off the couch, I ran towards the basement, something instinctively telling me that the noise had come from there. The door swung open, and the guy who had followed my brother down came running out, his gun still in hand.

            When he saw me standing there, he aimed for me, and I skedaddled like a skun rabbit, my hip throbbing when I hit the doorpost on the way into the kitchen. The bullet whizzed past me and hit the wall, giving me the incentive to keep moving. Calling for my sister, I raced into the lounge, and she scrambled up when she saw me, doll still in hand. Without even stopping, I grabbed her arm, and almost pulled her over in my haste to get out of the house.

            “You’re hurting me,” she whined, her protests silenced when she saw the gun. Running down the narrow hall to the front door, I heard the gun fire again, and my sister became a dead weight. I didn’t stop; releasing her arm and pulling the door open as fast as possible, escaping into the warm sunlight and relative safety of the street.

            The neighbours were gathered in a group around our house, all staring at me as I ran into their midst. The elderly woman from next door, Mrs Indle, I think her name was, pulled me to her.

            “What’s the matter dear?” she pressured, looking at me worriedly.

            I stayed silent, gasping for air as the shock of reality hit me. Not long after, the police arrived, but my brother and sister were pronounced DOA, and the man escaped without a trace. My parents pushed me to work with a sketch artist, but I refused to give any details, pretending to be the silent scared child that everyone thought I was. In all honesty, I wasn’t traumatized after seeing my sibling’s dead bodies wheeled from our house on stretchers. I marvelled at how much more beautiful they were dead.

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