Psycho

          I was walking home from school. Papers are falling out of my duct taped binder. I walked awkwardly down the sidewalk. My backpack hung over one shoulder, threatening to fall down to my elbow. And my glasses were slipping down my curved  nose.

   

Nothing abnormal about today. Nothing at all.

I strolled up my driveway and into a small white house. The yard was in disarray; grass unmowed, bushes untrimmed, toys not picked up. And the house was like frosting on cake. Very, very dirty frosting. The siding was breaking and falling. The shingles on the roof fell everywhere. The windows, dusty.

Nothing abnormal about today. Nothing at all.

I close the door behind me. It makes a loud squeal.  My mother’s hand  was draped over the edge of the couch; wineglass in hand. And on the kitchen table was an empty bottle of red wine. I shook my head and threw my bag and binder on the floor.

Nothing abnormal about today. Nothing at all.

“Hey mom.” I say. But she doesn’t answer. She was probably just asleep, but I call out louder. “Hey mom.” She didn’t even twitch. I sigh irritably and walk around the couch, “Mom!” I stop dead in my tracks. My blood turns cold and a flare of goose bumps runs up my back.

   

            This was no normal day. Not at all.

            It was sticky and red. Warm and fresh. Her eyes were open. Her body unmoving. I fell to my knees. I felt sick.

           She was dead. Stabbed in the back.

          Suddenly I heard footsteps. Loud and heavy footsteps. I froze as I saw a the figure of a man materialize in the kitchen. Broad shoulders, dark hair, knife in hand. I knew this man. I knew him well.

          He was my father. Oh, no.

          He came closer and closer. My heart races faster and faster. Why can’t I move? I just stare at him with fear. A crooked and evil smile spreads across his shadowy face.

        “Don’t be scared sweetheart.”