Becoming a Man in the Eyes of my Family

My name is Ali and I think I’m going to murder my family. That might be an ambitious thing for a fourteen-year-old boy to do but, I have no other options. All my life its as if I’ve been held back by some unseen force, only recently have I opened my eyes. The problem has been standing in front of me since the day I was born, my two parents, my own flesh and blood. Only I was no son to them, just a waste of life that they were forced to take care of. My parents, the source of my suffering, the pinpoint to all of my anxieties. Once I murder them, my life can finally blossom, turn into the utopia I have always dreamed of.

               I’m not part of a normal family. I never had any siblings, almost as if I were destined to be lonely ever since I took my first breath. No older siblings to guide me or give me advice, no younger siblings for me to hug so tightly they might burst, just me and my two parents. I don’t really remember much from when I was little but, from what I can remember, my parents have always been terrible. I was born in India, where overbearing families were an everyday trend. After we moved to Texas, when I was ten, it was painfully obvious to me that things worked a lot different across the sea. However, while I was winding my way through the maze that is the American school system, my parents continued their ways, applying more and more pressure onto my shoulders. My parents expected to create a diamond from coal but, what they created was far from it.

               At the time of one of my most scarring memories with my parents, I was only ten years old, a puny 6^th grader, scared to death of anything that moved. I walked through the front door of my new house; head hung low. I glided through the hallways, hoping to evade attention. Even though we had only been in the house for a month or two, I had already trained myself where to step to avoid making any noise. I skipped from floorboard to floorboard, almost as if it were a dance. I let out a sigh of relief and placed my hand gently on the banister that lead upstairs, thinking I was safe. The lights burst to life and flooded the room, I froze. My mother’s familiar icy voice rang through the hallway. “Honey, is that you? How was school?” I traced the voice back into the living room. As much I wanted to run up the steps, into my room and lock the door forever, I knew I couldn’t run from her. I slowly made my way into the living room, not even looking up at my mother. I stood there, staring at my feet, a piece of paper hanging limply from my hands. I could feel her brown eyes staring daggers at me and chills ran up my back. My mother was actually quite beautiful yet I quivered in fear before her. Mother made her way across the room snatching the piece of paper from my hand. My hand shook around the empty space where the paper had been. I knew what was about to happen.

               I probably looked like some sort of an insect to her. A cockroach maybe? A cockroach that needed to be stepped on. I watched her eyes flick over the page, her face a stone-cold slab. My mouth dried and time seemed to freeze, my torment being drawn out. Finally, her eyes left the paper and looked down at me, or through me. She started to laugh. Well, less of a laugh and more of an evil cackle. “A 78? In math? No son of mine would ever do such a thing. What a small, childish thing to bring home to your mother. Other boys are probably bringing home an A plus, imagine how his parents are feeling. You have the audacity to bring this offending piece of paper home, after all I’ve done for you. I moved across the WORLD for you! This is what I get? A disappointment of a son, who can’t even add and subtract numbers.” She paused here, for dramatic effect, to let her words sink in. I collapsed into a ball wishing to disappear, each of her words punching me in the gut. My mother payed no attention to my actions and took a deep inhale to continue her tyrant.

               “You could’ve never been born you know. I became pregnant with you during my prime years, do you have any idea what else I could have been doing with my life, had you not been created? That little fetus inside of me, so small, so weak, would’ve been so easy to eliminate, I could’ve done it with the snap of my fingers. But no. I took a chance on you and I chose wrong. Maybe your life would’ve been better if it had never begun. My son, no friends and bad grades, I can hardly bare to look at your face. You bare similar features as me but you are the farthest away from being a child I could truly ever love.” She then shoved the paper into my face and walked out of the room. The paper quickly became dripping wet with my tears. I curled into an even tighter ball, letting my sadness and anger consume me. I stayed there for what seemed like hours, holding the shriveled, wet piece of paper in my fist. My mother words had broken me, but I would not let her ruin me. In that moment, I vowed to end her before she ended me.

               Several years later, life continued to be the same. My grades never improved and my parents never changed. Life continued on it boring, routine cycle. I never made any friends, although I was always searching for a person that viewed the world as I did, that would understand me but, I still, even to this day, haven’t found one. After that event with my mother in 6^th grade, I distinguished myself as my own sperate social class I called “borderline existing”. A class in which I was invisible to everyone else except for myself and my thoughts.

               I have distant fond memories of my father, throwing around a ball made of dried up mud, admiring cool cars found in the parking lots of a local supermarket, the memories a normal boy and his father would have. However, year after year my father showed a more toxic side to be, turned his back on me. Constantly taking my mother’s side, getting out his belt whenever I did something remotely bad. While he would sometimes apologize and attempt to pursue conversations with me, my heart broke whenever I looked at him. In his face I saw the fond memories I had with him from when I was little, and that only broke my heart. Our relationship now was strained, to say the least, but, a part of me had always hoped he would make amends. He never did.

               Today, as I was walking home from school, I felt a rare sense of peace wash over me. The cool fall breeze washed over me and colorful leaves danced through the air. I felt as if I were transported into a movie scene, where all the characters were happy and the world was without flaw. I closed my eyes and breathed in the brisk air, trying my best to absorb the perfect moment, immortalize it. I opened my eyes, seeing the world from a whole new point of view. The world seemed brighter as if the sun had decided to shine just a bit more, just for me. I smiled, a genuine, toothy grin and I knew that today was a very special day. Today was a perfect day, today was the day I was going to kill my parents.

               I sprinted home, my backpack slamming against me as I ran, both of my shoes coming untied during my frantic dash. Out of breath, I nearly broke down my front door and I tossed my backpack onto the floor. Thoughts raced through my head, different ways of killing a person, all of my possible options. I scurried about the house making sure each room was set, ready for the feat I was going to accomplish later tonight. I fluffed each pillow, polished each doorknob. If I was going to kill my parents, I would a least let them die in a nice-looking house, that’s what they would’ve wanted. Once I was finished, I was breathing heavily. Not out of fear or exhaustion but, out anticipation. My parents were due home any moment now and the only thing I had left to take care of was choosing my weapon. I hurried to the kitchen and selected a knife, the shiniest, sharpest one. I gazed longingly at my reflection in the blade, the key to my perfect life was now laying soundly in my shaking hands.

               I sat in wait for my prey. Each painful memory with them resurfaced and played through my mind like a slideshow. My knuckles were strained white as I held the knife tightly in my grip. I couldn’t mess this up, I wouldn’t. I was only sure about one thing in my life and this was it. That one part of me that had always been missing was about to be whole again. Everything I had balanced in the weight of this one moment, this one moment would change my life forever. I held the knife up to my cheek and appreciated the cold, calming feel of it against my skin. I suddenly realized that, I was no longer a little kid anymore. Every terrible thing my mom had ever said, ever scratch against my skins from my dad built only became fuel to the fire in my veins. Every choice in my life, every event took place exactly how it was supposed to in order for me to be in this moment.

               I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the front porch and I gripped my knife harder than ever before. I heard the clashing of keys and watched the doorknob turn slower than I thought possible. Every muscle in my arm tensed ready to land the first blow upon my unassuming prey. The door creaked open, illuminating my face with moonlight. I watched my parent’s facial expression change and morph as they saw me and processed the situation. Not wanting to wait a second more, I launched into action. My arms and legs a deadly blur, I flung myself upon my mom and dad. Fury and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I blindly cut and stabbed with my knife. The moment became a blur of blood, rage and power. The bodies I had attacked finally began to still, to accept their fate. I stood back and admired my work triumphantly.

               In every horror movie, there is a scene in which the deranged killer looks upon his kill. I used to imagine what it would feel like, holding that knife above your head, ruthlessly stabbing the body below you. I used to dream about how the killer must have felt while committing this act, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the power he must’ve felt. However, standing hear above my two, bleeding parents, I didn’t feel anything. I felt numb. I watched dumbly as my mother attempted to crawl away, no doubt a useless instinct. I watched amusedly at the women who I had once trembled before, who I once feared was now blood-soaked and scared, backed against the corner. Her clothes were stained and I watched her hover over my father, who remained slumped against the wall, lifeless. I giggled at my mother’s distress and brought the knife up beside my head to put her out of her misery. Fear no longer crossed her face now, only sorrow. “My son...” she began. I cut her off as I brought my knife down through her head, again and again. I swung my knife against her body over and over, sobbing until I could no long lift my arms. I had done it; my parents were dead. A smile spread across my face; I wonder if they will still call me a “boy” when they find me tomorrow.