Chapter 3

I grasped the kitchen blade, its chilly heft pressing into my hand. The dim kitchen illumination couldn't conceal the loathing etched on my face.

Deliberately, I approached my sleeping parents. I paused before them, gazing down at their motionless forms.

I lifted the knife high, aiming for their chests.

The initial blow sent crimson droplets across my visage. Warm and viscous, it clung to my skin, but I felt nothing—no reluctance, no sorrow. Only the grim contentment of retribution.

As their final gasps faded to quiet, I briefly knelt to verify their demise.

Content, I turned my attention to Yasmine.

Her countenance was flushed with wrath and dread, her bloodshot eyes wide with alarm. She quivered, attempting to move, but her drugged body failed her. She could only pant heavily, trapped like prey awaiting its end.

Observing her pitiful state, my hatred surged, threatening to engulf me.

Why? Why should the cause of all this misery continue to exist so effortlessly?

Tears blurred my sight, cascading unchecked down my cheeks.

Clutching the knife tighter, I neared her. I raised the blade once more, this time targeting her legs.

The moment the edge made contact, a shriek pierced the air before she succumbed to the sheer agony.

Sixty seconds. That's all it took to completely sever her legs.

Blood sprayed violently, coating the walls in grotesque scarlet streaks, a chaotic masterpiece of vengeance.

I stood amidst the carnage, my ragged breathing the sole sound in the room. But it wasn't sufficient.

Hatred burned more intensely, propelling me forward.

I slashed her face twice, the knife carving deep, jagged wounds. Her once-flawless skin peeled back, exposing raw flesh beneath. The satisfaction was fleeting, but it dulled the edge of my fury.

The knife's tip hovered at her chest. Gradually, it slid downward.

The urge to slice open her heart pulsed through me, intensifying with each passing moment.

But just as I was about to yield entirely to the darkness, a sound pierced through the haze of my rage—the faint cry of my daughter from the adjacent room.

Reality crashed back, like a wave extinguishing a roaring blaze.

I stood immobile, the knife quivering in my grasp. My breath caught, and for a fleeting instant, reason clawed its way back into my mind.

My daughter.

Her innocent visage flashed in my thoughts, cutting through the torrent of hate.

To ensure there were no survivors, I returned to check one final time.

My heart twisted as I discovered my daughter, lifeless in her crib. She had passed long ago after consuming the milk powder I had prepared.

After all, she was my daughter. I granted her mercy—a painless escape from this cruel existence.

I cradled her cold, fragile form for a moment, a flood of emotions surging through me. But there was no turning back. Placing her gently back in her crib, I walked away, resolute.

Returning to the living room, I opened the door wide to allow the stench of blood to dissipate into the air outside. The metallic odor hung heavily, but I had grown numb to it.

I contacted the authorities.

Before they arrived, I turned my attention back to Yasmine. With what strength I had left, I ensured her body bore traces of the sins I wanted her punished for. When exhaustion overtook me, I dropped the knife and slumped onto the sofa.

My gaze fell on the fruit platter my mother had prepared before her demise. How ironic. I consumed each piece slowly, savoring the bittersweet taste of her final gesture.

The last slice was still in my mouth when law enforcement burst through the door.

They rushed to Yasmine, barely clinging to life, and whisked her off to the hospital. The house swarmed with officers, capturing images and gathering evidence.

If I weren't their son, this would have been labeled a massacre—a tragedy that nearly eradicated an entire family.