For the last nine years I have been on my own. It hasn't always been this way. My parents raised me until I was five. We lived in a beautiful house on a hill. My father was a witness for a murder case, and he had proof enough to get Hubert Gregory, a rich and powerful man, sentenced to life imprisonment. Hubert tried to bribe him not to, but he refused the money. Hubert told my father that if he testified against him, there would be consequences. My father ignored him.
The night before my father was going to be testifying against Hubert, a man broke into our house. I was hiding under the kitchen table, and I saw everything. The man pointed a gun at my father and held a knife to my mothers throat. He commanded my father to step back, then the man slit my mother's throat, and in the same instant he shot my father. The man ran out the door. I stayed under the table.
Our neighbors came by later to see what the noise had been. I answered the door. They saw the blood on me, and asked where my parents were. I pointed towards the kitchen, and they walked through the living room. They walked so slowly. I didn't move, but I heard their screams when they reached the kitchen.
Police showed up, child services came, I hadn't seen the man's face, so I was no help to the police. Child services had gotten in touch with the only family I had left.
My uncle, his name is Kurt. He was nice for the first few months, but then he was fired, and his girlfriend left, he blamed me. I was six at that point. He started out just yelling at me a lot, but quickly escalated to beating me. He pulled me out of school. My only breaks were when he was sleeping, sober, or at the casino. He got some money from my parents savings in small amounts every month to help support me. He always bought a bunch of canned ravioli, then gambled the rest away. I tried to run away a couple of times, but then he would cut the bottoms of my feet when he caught me. I lived with him for a little over four years, but then one day he went to the casino, and I came up with a plan.
I went outside and broke the lock on the door, then I went inside and took anything that looked even a little bit valuable. I moved all of the items to a hole in the back yard. It had been there for years, covered by wood, I recovered it. Then I went inside and shattered a lamp to make it look like there had been a fight. I took the glass and I sliced my arm. Then I dragged my arm across the floor to make it look like my bloody corpse had been taken also. Then I grabbed the can opener, the ravioli, all of my clothes, stuffed it all into a garbage bag. I had only two shirts, one pair of pants, and some underwear. Then I took the change I had been collecting for three years and left. I went to the edge of the city, and ran into the forest. I ran for miles, I stopped only once to eat.
After several days I reached Seattle. The city is beautiful, and it is my home, and its people are my family.
I needed money, and it turned out that I wasn't a bad singer, and people pitied me, so I earned money singing on the streets. I earned enough to buy a blanket and more ravioli, I bought myself some nicer clothes and started acting as a tour guide for people when I knew the city. I did odd jobs until I finally got hired for a real job. I worked at a small bakery. I stood in front of the restaurant offering free samples, and the baker fed me extras. Between not having to pay for food, and my salary, I was able to buy myself a very small apartment. It was actually a janitors closet, but it was dry and affordable.
I don't remember my exact birthday, so I usually just celebrate it on new years. I do remember that it is during the winter.
I turned 19 this winter.
I don't know what I'm alive for. I have no goals. No talents. I don't want love. What's the point? The only person I feel anything for is the baker. He knows nothing about me, I know nothing about him. He didn't even ask my name. He met me on the corner, watched me for several days, then offered me a job. I call him Baker, and he calls me Kid. That works for me. The less people know about me, the better.
Sometimes I watch people. I read them. People interest me, they all are so different, yet they strive so hard to be alike. Imagine a rainbow, but all of the colors pretend to be grey. Wouldn't that be boring? Yet when people do it, it's entertaining.
Baker has told me that I have to be nice and charming to bring in customers, so I talk to the people. I like them. If I had money, I would help them. There is a family that reminds me of my parents. For the last several years I have watched their son get older. He is so happy, and I always wonder if I used to be that happy. I can't think of the monster who would take his parents away from him, but then, I can. I watched that monster kill my parents.
A person was following the family. The person was suspicious, but the family didn't notice them. I decided to follow the person.
Baker gave me the rest of the day off, and I stalked the person. They sat outside of the family's house for hours, and then they entered through a window.
I felt my heart stop for a second, but then I ran and jumped in the window after the person. I tackled the person. Someone screamed, I guessed it was the mother. I didn't have time to think about what was happening. I was rolling across the floor trying to get control of the gun which was in the hands of my enemy. He punched me in the stomach and I doubled over, he pointed the gun at me, and I realized why I was alive. I was alive to stop this child's life from becoming like mine. I hit the gun out of his hand, and then grabbed a kitchen knife and slit his throat. As soon as I was sure that he was dead, I left.
“Wait! What's your name?”
I turned around, it was the father. I shook my head, and smiled at him, then I went home to shower and go to bed.
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