User blog comment:Natalo/A Fun Writing Challenge (for anyone who wants to participate)/@comment-25975226-20150315002248

Here's my own one. Thought I should contribute too, to show I can muster up somewhat of a story...

Don't Interrupt Me 

I was only young when I was introduced to the idea of murder. Some mediocre crime show was on the TV late at night, I believe the year was 2004? Anyway, I happened to walk in on my parents watching the show, right on the bit where the murder happened. I was only 11 then, and my parents were very strict about what shows I could watch.

As I watched the knife be plunged repeatedly into the screaming body, I found myself fascinated with it all. I couldn’t turn away. I wanted to, I really did. I found the whole thing disgusting, fake blood oozing out of the open wound, then a flash of silver as the knife penetrated yet another part of the body.

But I couldn’t turn away. I sat behind the couch, watching it. I watched them solve the crime, watched the ugly actor who played the serial killer get locked away behind bars for life. And then, and only then, I snuck away before my parents saw me.

They still don’t know about that night, but I can’t forget it. Not even 11 years later.

I became enthralled with all things horror, and when my parents were still at work and I’d arrive home from high-school, I always had about an hour and a half before they would come home. The perfect amount of time to watch a movie.

It was always the slasher films. I never did get through an entire movie before my parents came home, and not because I didn’t have enough time. It was because every time the slasher scenes came on, I would rewind them and watch them over and over. Someone’s head being slowly pulled off, the tendons inside struggling to keep the vital body part attached, the skin stringing into skinny flaps, the mouth still screaming.

The effects were phenomenal, and I just had to watch them over and over again. Then my parents would inevitably pull their car up our concrete driveway, and I would dive to the television screen, eject the VCR, or DVD in later years, and rush to conceal it somewhere in the living room before they poked their nosy heads in through the door.

“Afternoon, son. Nice day at school?” Dad would always ask me, the fake chirpiness of his voice became clearer and clearer as the years slowly crawled by.

“Yeah, I guess,” became my answer towards the end of high-school. I was 18; I didn’t need to be babied anymore. And I could tell how fake Dad was. Besides, he always interrupted my horror movies. There’s only so much a person can take...

Two years ago, twenty years old. The prime of my youth. The first night I killed. Dad and Mum slept ever so soundly, and the knife I carried shone in the moonlight. I walked into the bedroom, making sure to eliminate any possibility of their screams escaping the house by closing the windows. We wouldn’t want anyone worrying, now would we?

I hadn’t aimed to kill Mum; it was only Dad who I’d wanted. But I couldn’t leave her with a psychopathic son, and no husband to cry with. No, Mum’s death was an act of kindness.

I raised the knife high above the bed sheets, and then I watched the knife be plunged repeatedly into the screaming body. Blood oozing out of the open wound, then a flash of silver as the knife penetrated yet another part of the figure. I watched it happen, and I watched my own hand do it. But I was way back, watching that crime show. Watching someone else murder my parents. Watching them getting killed and doing nothing about it, as I had sat and watched the crime show nine years earlier. And as I sat watching the knife open up their flesh to give their organs their very first view of the world, I knew.

In that moment everything became clear. I knew I could never go back.

You can find it at this link if you want to leave comments!