All The Bad Things, Anyway.Mature

 I guess if you're reading this, you'll be wanting to know how the title is relevant to the story. You will find out in time. I like that about stories. There is always an ending, whether it is bad or good. In this case, it's bad for me I'm afraid. But if you're reading this, you'll probably just think of it as another story to store away in the filing cabinet of your memory. That the ending will probably have no lasting impression on yourself - and that's how I want it.

 I've decided that I will begin the story from the day my mother left. Not that I want to depress you, reader, but that it is quite significant too me. And hey, whose the writer? I remember it quite vividly. A fairly warm, clear day. Sometime mid-August. All the children were playing on their front gardens with their sprinklers, or having a picnic. I always wanted to join them, but my father said they were the 'wrong crowd'. That I would be 'influenced by them to partake in bad deeds', or something like that. It's funny, because it was him who was the influence for me to do all the things I did. All the bad things, anyway.

 I would sit and stare out the window at the children playing. I was about thirteen years old. My father would watch the football, being all reclusive and not talking until the game was over. Not even half-time. He would get up after the half-time whistle to go and make himself a sandwich. Once mom made him a sandwich, but he rejected it. He only ate his own sandwiches. "I made it for you," my mom would say.

 "I don't care! I'm the man of this house, and I tell you when to cook!" My dad would shout.

 I always dreamed of the day where my mother would just kill him. Perhaps using one of her many kitchen knives. He would come in and be making his sandwich, and she would walk up and plunge it deep into his back. Then again, and again. I would cry, but with happiness. I would be proud of her.

 Anyway, that day I decided not to watch the children playing, because it would make me angry, as always. I decided to go for a walk. My father probably wouldn't have permitted it, but I sneaked outside. I walked down the driveway, past the garage which was open. My father's Cadillac DeVille sat in there. That fucking Cadillac. He always spoke about it, and that no-one was to touch it. I always felt that it was watching me, and that if I went to touch it, it would shout my father's name. He would run out, and hit me. He hit me anyway, so I wouldn't care. As long as I got to touch it.

 I walked past the park, where more children played. I saw the swings. They were empty. I ran over to them, as fast as I could so nobody took them. I played on them for hours. Swinging, back and forth. I stayed there, until all the children had gone home, and it was dark.

 When I came home, all the lights were off, except a small table lamp beside the television. The Football highlights were playing, with the sound turned very low. "Where have you been?" my father's voice said. I almost jumped out of my goddamn skin.

 "I was walking the dog," I replied. Then I remembered that Granny was looking after the dog. I saw the silhouette of my father rise from the couch. I backed into the kitchen and turned on the light. My father was wearing his work suit, still. I saw that his hands were stained red. Perhaps he'd been cooking.

 "Where the fuck, have you been?!" he shouted. I was worried that he'd wake mom up. I stuttered a few words, but then he approached me. "How dare you lie to me, James!" I hated it when he said my name. It meant he was angry.

 "I'm s-s-sorry, dad! So s-sorry!" I trembled. I was then backed into the corner. He loomed over me, his teeth gritted. He raised his hand to hit me, then brought it down and struck me across the head. I began to cry.

 "Get up! Now!" he yelled. As I got up, I noticed my mom's set of knives. This was it. Time to end it. I got onto my feet. My father raised his hand once more, but before he could hit me again, I grabbed the French Cook's knife, and thrust it into his chest. His eyes bulged, and his hand fell to his side. Blood stained his shirt from where I had stabbed him. He remained on his feet. I stabbed him again.

 "Die! You bastard, die!" I cried. Tears streamed down my face. He fell to his knees, and finally onto his back. I placed the bloodied knife on the kitchen table, and went to look for my mother. It was him who had influenced me. To do those things. All the bad things, anyway.

The End

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