Prove Them Wrong

Fire. Death. Pain.

I dropped the match and the house went up in a burst of flames. Regret filled my heart as I fled into the darkness, ignoring the desperate screams of my family as they begged for dear life.

   All my life, my family, my teachers and even my friends have underestimated me. Mocked me for not being good enough. Teased me for not meeting their expectations. Shunned me for not being the perfect daughter. I guess I was sick of it. Sick of never being truly loved. Sick of always being compared to others. Sick of being a disappointment. 

    Every day of my childhood, I tried so hard to prove them wrong. To prove to them that I am not a disappointment. I never really believed that though. My parents had drilled into my brain the message that I’m not good enough so many times, that it was embedded in there. It was embedded to the point that I couldn’t even believe in myself. That I actually gave up on myself. And that drove me to the point of going mad. 

   I still don't know when I really cracked. I used to be a sweet, little girl who was sad that she wasn't perfect. God. What I would give to be that innocent again. But I have changed. My mind has twisted. I have become someone who no one would have expected me to be. I am a villain. Similar to the kind in storybooks. A despicable creature. A lunatic. A monster. A murderer. 

   I have been overwhelmed by darkness. My parents noticed madness creeping through me. That's why they threw me in the looney bin. I never forgave them for that. Years passed by, anger, lunacy, insanity bundled up inside of me. Since I was a child, they had always hated me, so why not chuck me in a mental asylum. Why not try and get rid of me. It made perfect sense. I had painted a horrifying picture of my parents' plan in my mind. My sister, Annabelle, tried to visit me one time. I guess my mad, twitching eye and deranged, murderous smile scared her off. I never saw her again. Or at least, not alive. I did see her charred, lifeless body after it was recovered from the fire. 

   Prisoners of the asylum (such as me) are trained to believe that they are the one and only reason that they have become such deranged creatures, but I know that's not true. I know that my family are the reason for me going mad. My teachers are the reason. Even my friends are the reason. But no one at Thornhill would accept that. No one would accept that anyone “sane” would be the reason for my madness. The reason for my insanity. 

  Throughout my time in the Thornhill Mental Asylum, I depicted a truly evil plan on what I would do when I got my hands on my treacherous family. Foul ideas flooded my mind, when I realised that as long as my parents were alive, I would never leave the asylum. Unless I were to escape. Unless I were to break loose from the tight security, to flee the horrors of Thornhill. So that's exactly what I did. On the night of my escape many things went wrong, but by the time dawn had broken, I had managed to leave Thornhill in my past. 

   After weeks of walking through abandoned woods, dark alleys and secret parts of town, I had reached my childhood home. The home that my brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews and my parents lived in. The mansion that the whole family enjoyed the luxury of, while I rotted away in Thornhill. From the shadows, I watched my family all day as they went on with their lives. I watched them until midnight. When everyone was fast asleep I approached the house. I touched the door for one last time. 

   I hesitantly lit a match, almost deciding not to do it. Not to kill my entire family. But I did. The bright flames burst through the house, lighting up the sky. Screams reaped through the night’s silence. Sirens wailed, approaching the house. I fled into the darkness. And never turned back. 

   I almost thought that I would get away with it. Until the wailing sirens pulled up to my apartment. Police knocked the door down, and secured handcuffs around me. I didn't even try to plead my innocence. Only then did the truth kick me in the arse. I had murdered my family. I had murdered a baby, 2 toddlers, my siblings, their husbands and wives. I had murdered my mother and father. Even if they were never supportive parents, they still gave me nourishment and shelter. They gave me life. And I had ended theirs.

   I never thought I would feel regret nor shame. I thought that I would feel good. But how could I feel good. I had ended 12 lives. 12 people who were all I had. 12 people who I could call my family. But now I have no one. And it was all my fault. Yes, they were horrible people, but their nastiness had blinded me. I got to a point where I believed that they were nothing and actually deserved to die. Instead, they are all dead, and I have been charged with a life sentence in solitary. I guess I was destined to be locked in a cell all my life, whether I was in Thornhill, or jail.

   As a child I always wanted to prove my family wrong. Prove to them that I am perfect. I guess that plan never panned out. Instead I’m rotting away in a jail cell for the murder of 9 adults and 3 children. The murder of my family.  

This is my first story as a teen writer so please support it xx I’m currently writing a fantasy novel and need all the support I can get as I am only 13 xx

Thanks x