Everyone may think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth but that’s far from my case. My father was a redneck racist and my mother was a hillbilly, black cock loving cheater. The only consistent factor in my family was the constant use of drugs and the abuse, something I’d grown numb to but every time he’d strike my mother he hurt me mentally, it hurt more than when he would physically beat me. I’ve learned the abuse didn’t come from hatred towards me or my mother or even from the fact that she cheats because he has more dead bodies in his closet than a morgue. His actions comes from self hatred, he blames us for the failure he became in his mother’s eyes. I love them both but my love for them is hot, my skin boils when we are together their words are like acid to my ears when I have to listen to them. I’ve decided that this passionate fire toward them is actually a volcanic hatred and god help me my love is about erupt. After a long day at the bar and a long night of abusing us I creeped into the bedroom of my parents it felt like I was diving into the belly of the beast or trying to tip toe myself right into the center of the loin’s den. The night was dying the morning was beginning to awake but the sun hadn’t yet fully open it’s eye, I was standing there motionless over the reasons of a broken home, firmly griping a 12″ kitchen knife in my left hand because my right hand was mercifulness crushed by my father’s fury just a few hours ago. The hardest part about what I was about to do wasn’t the decision, the hard part was deciding who was going to go first. I’d chosen my father because he caused me the most pain in my life but mainly because if he was to awake as I’m taking care of my mother he would most likely win the tussle. Standing over his motionless slumber I envisioned his lifeless body laying in a pool of his own blood and got caught in a hypnotic trance then I snap, going into a stabbing bing starting from the temple in his head down to his legs stopping only because I didn’t want to dull my knife on the bones of his lower leg. Amazingly mother hadn’t woken from me over-killing her husband just inches away from her. I don’t know if it was 5 or 45 mins as I stood over my mother as she slept but my once warm blooded drenched clothes had become cold and I knew it was time to make my next move. As if she was touched by an angel she awoke right before I could make my next move. Not seeing the murder weapon in my hand nor her lifeless husband, her motherly instincts kicked in and quickly sat up to ask me what happen with the looks of the world weight in her eyes. She didn’t think to look back or even speak loud because she knew more than likely that my father did this to me and didn’t want to wake the sleeping bear. She was right my father did cause this.