Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26193563-20150622185523

The one thing that my father loved more than himself and the remote control for the TV (he hated his 14-year old son) was my mother. She was an ugly whore, but I guess my father loved her so dearly was because of her sick sense of humor.

So when my father found my mother's corpse in the morning, brutally stabbed in various areas, he sort of lost it. The police had arrived and taken the corpse away, promising to figure out who the killer was.

My father fell into an extreme state of depression. He would moan and loaf around. He sometimes would become mad for no reason, screaming at how the killer would be sorry for everything, that he would loved my mother, that he should have fucked her more. You might have thought he became a madman or something, but that wasn't exactly the truth.

You see, I started to get a bit scared when my father would look directly at me, and whisper that if he ever found out who the killer was, he would rip him/her into bits of shreds, chew on their flesh, gouge out their eyes, suck on their bones. I'm wondering what he would do to me when he figures out that I was the one that killed my mother. 