Family Time

In films, corpses are supposed to look real, but you can clearly tell they
e fake. By how the placement of the blood trails to or the position of the ”dead ” body, it can never look fully real. From the amount of detective and horror films Ive watched, I think I can confidently say I can tell the difference between real and fake corpses. Not an ability to brag about on the playground, but an ability nonetheless. Unfortunately, that is being put to the test as I view two corpses in front of my very own eyes. But they weren any normal corpses. No, no, instead they looked to be burned to a crisp with slash marks cut under that layer. There was no doubt that whoever did this had already cut them before they burned them with the lighter that was left at the scene. A very cold liquid dripped from the corpses onto the broken floor. How the floor was broken could only be assumed from the weight of the combined corpses. Incidentally, I added a new liquid to the rotting bodies.

My very own vomit.

I only came right back from school, after a victorious day defeating the school bullies at last, and this is what I come back to. Mangled and distorted corpses right in front of the doorway to the bathroom. When I saw the grotesque sight, my initial reaction was to vomit out all the food I had consumed throughout the day and cry out hysterically like a child.

Not my proudest moment.

But, I would assume anyone would do that in this situation. Your first thought won be to think rationally and keep calm, right? It would be to freak out over this new scene presented to you. Every emotion you ever felt would rip out of your skull until the emotions wore their selves out. Which, after an hour or two, those emotions fully evaporated, and I could calm myself down.

It was time to analyse this Godforsaken sight before me.

Now, who would do such a thing in my own home?

I instantly thought of my sister, but that would be impossible right off the bat. She currently resided in prison. Then I thought of my parents, but that would also be impossible. My parents were not only the kindest people I know, but they had schedules so busy that Im surprised they don have a stress disorder because of it. But theres a logical reason why it can be them as well. The entrance to my house, upon closer inspection, had been broken into with the knob loose enough that it was no wonder my keys didn unlock it. Because of the rain during the morning, they were somehow mud tracks all over the house, from the top to the bottom floor. The backyard door was wide open, with no thought to have closed it. Not only is the murderer unintelligent—opposed to my brilliant parents—they won have to break into their own home.

And the most damning piece of evidence was our very own house phone.

If my parents were to be late to work, even by a minute, their bosses would call them to give notice. My parents were never the type to own smartphones despite the digital age we live in, so they would have to ring up the house phone. I only know this from the many times I was home alone or sick on weekdays, and how startled I would get when the phone rang, with how rarely it ever does ring. The first thing I had to do was check if there were any voice messages. If they were, I knew my parents had some type of hand in committing this despicable crime.

Fortunately, there were no voice mails on record. In fact, the last voice mail was six months ago, and nowhere near today.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Im thankful they had been on time today. My parents usually leave home early and arrive home late, so Im fully sure and confident to say that it must have been someone with that I had no connection. For whatever bizarre reason, they choose my home as a dropping ground. I live relatively far from the main neighbourhood, so the criminal must have thought my house to be the perfect place. After breaking in, they fled inside as the criminal checked every possibility of an individual, which explained all the mud tracks.

I can exactly come up with a valid explanation for the burn or cuts. The criminal may have done it before arriving or during his search. The cracks on the floor also present a mystery. I doubt the corpses are that heavy, and unless the criminal has immense strength, he may have killed them here.

The more I kept thinking, the more mysteries cropped up, although I really shouldn be thinking this hard on this. After all, this is a job for the police, and they will eventually bring justice to the despicable murderer.

I returned my attention to the house phone and started to dial the authorities. The buttons on the phone felt oddly cold. I started to notice that the kitchen itself was unusually cold as well.

Suddenly, I heard something move and dropped the phone flat on the ground. I looked behind to see nothing but felt a cold, numb hand grab my neck. It gripped my neck like cloth. Then I saw the left hand of this mysterious person move aside from my face. It revealed a short, cooking knife which pressed against my neck ever so carefully.

I attempted to shake, but even then, the mystical being grabbed my shoulders, signalling to stop any part of my body from moving. I knew then this person could be the murderer or a surviving member, but the latter didn make too much sense. If it were to be a surviving member, I doubt they would resort to killing the first person. Besides, its likely been hours since the crime took place. Why would they want to stay here instead of leaving as far as possible?

Theres also the possibility of the person mistaking me for the murder, but I strongly doubt that. I think they would notice if I was the one who killed someone or not.

Alas, even with all this thinking, I can help but sweat and be fearful of my life. Im still just a child. And being the child I am, the only real action I decided to take was to turn my head around.

Not the smartest move, but I have nothing else to lose besides my life.

And then, I saw it.

The face of the murderer.

A tall female with long, pure black hair that tangled its way down to their shoulders. Her hair looked unclean and messy with a disgusting smell. She had grey eyes, filled with nothing but a goal in mind. That goal was beyond me. The clothes she wore were very well-dressed but ruined with the colour of blood all over.

Worst of all, I recognised it as my very own mother.

My mother?

My m-mother?

No.

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. GOD NO!

It isn possible. It can be true. There must be a mistake. There must be a misunderstanding in my sight. I tried with all my brainpower to think of some alternate conclusion. Perhaps a bit too much because my body went limp and proceeded to fall on the kitchen floor.

Very hard, in fact.

The pain accelerated throughout every part of my body until I couldn move any part of myself. Instead, I became an object as I lay on the kitchen floor.

Waiting for the moment I could feel something.

Waiting for the feeling to return.

Instead, to my great dismay, the murderer walked toward me. She slowly bent down and grabbed my body tight enough to lift me up. Using her legs, she pushed my being upward before fully carrying me like a newborn child.

As if I weigh nothing in her arms.

As if those lives she carried weigh nothing in her arms.

Every step she took had a weight of emptiness. Or, a more precise word would be familiarity. It was almost like she had gone through situations of similar calibre. As a bird knows through practice how to fly, she moved through practice on how to walk. She knew what steps would be risky or safe. She knew what steps would take her to the destination faster. She knew what steps would safely arrive her to end many lives.

Even if I could not feel myself, I could feel her body bending downward. With that motion ongoing, she loosened her arms to drop me. Instead of another hard floor, it was the sofa she chose to place me on.

My body still had no feeling, but my mind could still feel for what my body couldn .

Absolute terror.

What if she were to kill me right now? How would she do it? Would she kill me as she did with the others? Cut parts of myself until I was a bloody mess, only to burn me afterwards? Or is my mother a cambial, who will eat me alive? Would the feasting be slow or fast-paced? But then, what if she actually wants to sexually please herself? Were those corpses raped before or after? In fact, how were they raped? Did she touch them in places one would never dare let another human even consider holding? Did she touch them in places that puzzled them with pleasure and insanity? Or what if she simply pleased herself, and forced them to do the raping, only to kill them after?

Or then, what if she simply killed them?

No torture, sexual assault, or disturbing methods of murder.

Just killed them.

End their lives.

Just like that.

And that was what I feared most.

Thats what I feared, she would do to me.

Until the door opened.

What came out was a tall, slender man, lacking in