Sunday is the worst day of the week.
The adults who aren't my parents run, screaming at each other, through the house. Glass shatters as furniture crashes into the wall.
From my bedroom window, I watch smooth-faced, shiny children walking down the road to church, their best clothes bright in the sunshine, holding hands with grown-ups who look as though they wouldn't raise their voices even in an emergency.
A mother stoops and kisses her little girl.
A father ruffles his son's hair.
Behind me, the screaming gets louder and my name is scattered like buckshot. Dragging my eyes away from the angels and their guardians, I force myself to concentrate on reassembling the automatic pistol for which I sold my soul and a diamond ring to the local drug baron.
Drug baron, the loser. I don't have a soul, but he doesn't know that.
Someone's banging on my bedroom door then the woman who is not my mother rattles the handle and my name is a curse in her mouth when she finds herself locked out. She stomps away and voices rise like hysterical demons.
I insert the magazine. Pull the slide.
Hold the barrel to my nose.
Gun oil gives me a high.
The front door slams.
I watch the people who are not my parents stride towards their car. I push the window open and lean upon the sill.
There is no-one on the street to see them fall.
I step out of the house into silence and the gun presses against the small of my back like a friendly hand.
Tonight, my soulless body will lie between the angels.
Tomorrow morning, my name will be in the headlines.
Monday is going to be the best day of the week.
The adults who aren't my parents run, screaming at each other, through the house. Glass shatters as furniture crashes into the wall.
From my bedroom window, I watch smooth-faced, shiny children walking down the road to church, their best clothes bright in the sunshine, holding hands with grown-ups who look as though they wouldn't raise their voices even in an emergency.
A mother stoops and kisses her little girl.
A father ruffles his son's hair.
Behind me, the screaming gets louder and my name is scattered like buckshot. Dragging my eyes away from the angels and their guardians, I force myself to concentrate on reassembling the automatic pistol for which I sold my soul and a diamond ring to the local drug baron.
Drug baron, the loser. I don't have a soul, but he doesn't know that.
Someone's banging on my bedroom door then the woman who is not my mother rattles the handle and my name is a curse in her mouth when she finds herself locked out. She stomps away and voices rise like hysterical demons.
I insert the magazine. Pull the slide.
Hold the barrel to my nose.
Gun oil gives me a high.
The front door slams.
I watch the people who are not my parents stride towards their car. I push the window open and lean upon the sill.
There is no-one on the street to see them fall.
I step out of the house into silence and the gun presses against the small of my back like a friendly hand.
Tonight, my soulless body will lie between the angels.
Tomorrow morning, my name will be in the headlines.
Monday is going to be the best day of the week.
