After ten years...ten long years of my ******** father and mother leaving my brothers and I to take care of the family...the b*****d comes home. That's right! He just showed up last night.
I literally tried to kill him. I tried to shoot him but my brothers stopped me. The gun was on his forehead. Even though my brothers and I HATE him, we let him stay the night on the couch becasue my younger sisters, never knowing our father was alive, were all over him as soon as they could recognize him from an old picture they had to beg me for years ago. My sisters are the reason I did not shoot him; I like to see them happy. But that will only keep me at bay for a little while.
Later, I am heading toward my bedroom, having to go infront of the living room door to do so, when he calls me into the room. I go to the door but no further. I glare at him and he stares blankly back. Just like I remember him.
He tells me the reason he came back. My "Mother" is dead. My expression is unchanging. She left me and my brothers too. Both of them are no better than pieces of trash. I turn to walk away but stop at his words, to hear him plead for his life:
"Senta, don't kill me. I beg of you. Please don't—"
My response is a bloodlusting grin he can't see and my cold words of death:
"We will talk tomorrow."
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Inner Me
About my everyday life and about my thoughts...sometimes (meaning most of the time) my siblings, both older and younger, will post comments about my day or about me in my journals. And I must warn you: Sometimes this journal might get a little graphi
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