My hands shook violently as I rushed to grab the phone. My fingers trembled, causing me to almost miss the correct numbers.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Please help me," I cried. "Please!"
"What is the problem?" the operator asked through the receiver.
Hot tears ran down my face as I replied, "M-my parents are d-dead." I could feel the shakiness of my voice as I spoke, but I wasn't sure if it was from crying so hard or from the trauma I had just witnessed.
"It's okay. Just calm down. Now, do you know how they died?" the operator asked gently.
"I—," I started to say.
"Excuse me?" the operator asked, a hint of worry in her voice.
I'm so stupid! How could I have said that? No one could know what I'd done. No one! I thought,cursing at myself for almost letting it slip out.
"I-I think t-they committed s-suicide," I finally answered.
"What is your address, name, and age?" she asked.
"114 Victorville Road. My n-name is Kara Jones, and I'm twelve years old," I answered.
"Help will be there in less than ten minutes. I'll stay on the phone with you until someone arrives," the operator said.
"I'm really scared," I cried.
"It's okay," she said. "Take a deep breath. It's not like it was your fault."
But it was my fault! It was all my fault!
I lay silently in my bed as I listened to my parents argue about me.
"What are we going to do with her? Huh? We can't just throw her out onto the street!" my mother yelled.
"She's going crazy, Diane. First it was her hamster and then a stray cat. She even broke the neighbor's nose. It won't be long before she severely hurts, or even kills, someone," Dad screamed back.
"We have no proof that she did those things, Roger."
"No proof? No proof? She was there when all of it happened; she was the only one there. She was even holding the decapitated hamster in her hands. In her hands! What more proof do you need?" I heard my Dad yell.
I could hear Mom's voice soften a little, and I could tell she was on the verge of tears.
"I just—I mean, I don't believe our little girl could be capable of doing those things. She was only five years old when the hamster incident happened. A five-year-old doesn't really know any better; she probably didn't mean to." She whimpered.
"Okay, I'll give you that. But a six, seven, or eight-year-old knows better than to kill a cat and break a boy's nose," Dad said. I listened as his heavy boots stomped across the floor. I could hear Dad jerk opened the refrigerator. Glass clinked together, then I heard the hiss of the bottle opening; Dad always drank when he was real irritated. I could feel my stomach drop as I realized he wasn't angry at Mom, but at me.
"Be quiet! Do you want her to hear you? I'm telling you, Roger, she's not a killer!"
"I'm sorry, Honey," Dad said quietly, "but I just don't know what to do."
I tossed and turned in my bed. I couldn't get their words out of my mind. They were right. I was a killer. I was a freak, but I didn't want to be.
I got up out of bed and walked over to my wooden dresser. As I looked at my refection in the mirror, all I saw was a scared, twelve-year-old girl—a girl who didn't know what she did wrong or how she did it, a girl whose parents were always afraid of her… a girl who was afraid of herself.
I then turned around and gazed at my room. My walls were pure white, with flower and butterfly stickers pasted all over. My comforter was bright, hot pink. A few stuffed animals surrounded the headboard of my bed. My room was all neat and girly, nothing close to a killer's room.
I picked up my hairbrush and started to casually brush my long black hair, trying to forget how different and how much of a freak I was. But it didn't help because every time I even looked at my hair, it reminded me of how I would always be an outcast. My Mom's hair was a pretty auburn color. And my Dad had short brown hair. My hair had always been jet black, ever since I could remember. At first I had thought nothing of it, until I got older and realized that no one in my family had the same color of hair as me. Everyone I met always thought that I dyed it that color.
I threw the brush down on the dresser. Storming out of my room, I walked quietly into the kitchen where my parents were. Mom was washing some of the dishes as Dad sat at the kitchen table with his laptop. I stayed in the dark shadows of the hall, trying not to make a sound. I locked my attention on Mom as I made her walk over to the knife drawer.
What do you think you're doing? Stop!
I'm doing what I should've done a long time ago.
They're your parents! They love you!
They don't love me. Didn't you hear them? They want to get rid of me!
I focused on Mom again as I made her open the drawer and pick up a knife. I was in control of her, and I loved it.
"Roger, help!" Mom yelled, putting the blade against her throat.
Dad quickly got up and started to go over to her, but I stopped him in his tracks. I could feel his resistance as Dad tried helplessly to get to Mom, but I wouldn't let him.
"Diane, what's happening?" he asked.
"I don't know," Mom screamed, terrified as the blade began to break skin. "I can't stop myself!"
They were no longer my parents, they were my puppets, and I controlled the strings.
Stop, you're gonna regret this!
I can't stop now; it's too late for that.
Mom let out a bloodcurdling scream as she slit her own throat. Blood flowed everywhere, making a small puddle on the hardwood floor. She dropped the knife and started to grab a towel to stop the bleeding, but I wouldn't let her.
"No! Stop! Someone, please help!" Dad screamed.
As Mom collapsed on the floor, fighting for her life, Dad walked to his room. When he came back, he carried his pistol. I forced him to point the loaded weapon at Mom.
I knew deep down that what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn't stop myself; it was like being in a hypnotic state. I smiled in pleasure as they cried in pain.
"No! I can't do this! Please stop!" Dad cried out, resisting my influence. He closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger, shooting Mom in the head, killing her instantly.
I slowly stepped out of the shadows of the dark hallway, and into the light of the kitchen.
Dad looked at me with a disbelieving expression.
"Kara?" he asked.
"Goodbye, Dad," I said in a voice I didn't recognize as my own.
He put the gun to his head, begging for mercy. Then he pulled the trigger. Blood and brain splattered over the counters and the door of the oven as Dad fell lifelessly to the floor.
I blinked, waking from my hypnotic shutting my eyes, I bent over and puked my guts out. I took a deep breath as I wiped the sticky saliva off my chin with the sleeve of my shirt
How could you do this?
I don't know!
You're a murderer, Kara; you killed your own parents!
You don't even deserve to live!
I fell to my knees as I cried, ashamed of what I'd done. I was a killer, and I always would be.
"Miss? Kara, are you still there?" the operator asked, concerned.
I shook my head, waking myself from my thoughts.
"Yes, I'm here," I said.
I heard police sirens outside my house, and I hung up the phone as the police and paramedics stormed through the door.
A tall police officer rounded the corner of the kitchen, slowly walking over to me.
"Don't be afraid. Come with me," he said, grabbing my hand and leading me outside the house. The other policemen and paramedics stepped into the kitchen, taking pictures of the scene.
As we stepped out onto the front porch, the officer asked, "What time did this happen?"
I shook my head. "I'm not sure. Maybe around ten?"
He nodded as he jotted notes down on a clipboard.
"Did you witness the incident?"
I gulped. "Yes."
Once again, he nodded.
"Do you have any close relatives?" he asked.
I shook my head sadly. "No, all of my close relatives are dead," I said, which was true. The ones that were still alive wouldn't have wanted me anyway. No one would want me.
He nodded again, this time sympathetically.
"I'll be right back. In the meantime, wait for me in the car, please," he said, and he made his way back inside my house.
I nodded, slowly walking to his car and getting in the backseat.
My heart stopped as I peered out the window and saw two paramedics wheel my parents out on stretchers. They put them into the back of the ambulance; their bodies zipped up in black bags.
This is what you did to them, Kara. You did this. You made all of this happen.
I know, I know.
Tears ran down my face as I realized that I was right; I was a murderer.