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Another sip of wine and I glance down at the blood on my clothes. Not my blood, their blood. Mom, dad, Jason, and Brittany finally gone. From my vantage point in the field I could see the house in flames. It looked like some great monster struggling against the tentacles of fire determined to drag it down.

Another sip of the wine. Bitter and harsh, the red liquid sloshed down my throat. Bitter and harsh like my father. He always hated me. He found useless reasons to bring his old, metal cane down on me. Sometimes it was hard enough to draw blood. He cared more about his business than me. He hated the fact that I wasn't perfect like Jason and Brittany or his puppet like mom. I guess that's why I took such gratification in bringing that cane down on his head over and over again until he stopped twitching. I was smiling the whole time.

My mother didn't even wake but I didn't suspect she would. I couldn't even begin to count all the pill bottles she owned and she always had some new excuse to have them. She was drugged half the time, the other half was a horrible woe fest mostly directed at me. I was the stupid, ugly, fat, horrible, child who she hated because everything was my fault. She would go on and on naming anything she could think of to call me. When she couldn't think of any words to call me, she'd just throw whatever she was drinking on me and say I needed a bath before bursting into that horrid, choking laugh of hers. Then she pops more pills and goes to sleep. I not ashamed to admit I happily drugged that vodka by her bed with enough muscle relaxers to put down a horse. The last thing she'd known in this life is how difficult it was to breath. I just sat there in a chair by the door watching her. She just continued to stare at me while her faced turned blue and twitched. I smeared some of dad's blood on her forehead and told her she needed a bath. I dragged her still conscious form to the bathtub, ran her a hot bath, and put her in head first. She just laid there with her head in the water, gurgling. Then she stopped and I watched my mother die without an inch of regret.

The noise from my parents' bedroom woke my sister and she was standing there when I exited their room. Her large, doe eyes lit up in fear at the sight of me. I glared back at her in fury, dad's metal cane propped on my shoulder. Suddenly she opened he mouth to scream and I swung that cane like a Louisville Slugger and caught her just above the eye. There was a crunch and then she begins to stumble. Back, back, and over the railing. The sound of her body hitting the floor wasn't anywhere near as delicate as she always pretended to be. I walked slow and calm up to the railing and looked over. Her body lay spread-eagle on the ground level, her head facing the wrong way. As I watched the blood pool beneath her I could feel every time she had spit on me or scratched with those horrid fake nails or told me how ugly or stupid I was. She was a pompous spoiled beauty queen who couldn't see past the reflection in the mirror and she had gotten what she deserved.

The only person left was my brother a sick pervert. I won't elaborate on his sins but he had been the villain of crimes he could never repay. Jason had this knife that he'd had for most of his life. It was a bowie knife with a carved ivory handle. It was the same knife he had held to my throat years ago. I found it lying in its hand carved case on his desk. I wanted him to know what it was like to feel helpless. To feel like there was no one in the world who could save you, just like I had felt back then. I grabbed the knife and slid into his bed. I crawled on top of him and sat on his chest. My weight woke him up and he stared questioning up at me. I just smiled down at him and tested the weight of the knife behind my back. He opened his mouth to speak but I didn't give him the opportunity to and brought the knife down and across his throat. He just laid there and choked on the blood. I just smiled down at him until his eyes glazed over and his breathing stopped.

Huh, my bottles almost empty. Oh well, my story is almost done and so is the house soon there won't be anything left. So to say it was planned would be wrong. Truthfully it was all spur of the moment. The only planning I'd made was to make sure dad's spare gasoline tanks were filled. I had known where my dad kept his stash (he was always complaining about high gas prices and so kept his own to refill when the prices were low) and I didn't hesitate to empty them in the inside of the house. Going from room to room I splashed and soaked what I could finish at the end of the hall where the family portrait had stood. I wasn't in it. My dad said I was already a disgrace to the family and he didn't want any reminder of me left in the portrait. I lit the first match there. I wasn't stupid when it came to all this. I had grabbed papers and documents and even my father's laptop which contained records and the name of every off shore account my family owned. They were scum bags affected by their wealth and self-image; I think the world was better off without them. I peered up at the only witness to my crime, the moon, smiling down at me. I took one last look at the smoldering embers and thought I saw flashing lights on the horizon. Time to go. I smiled and disappeared into the brush.