There’s a place I like to call home and it’s far away from you

The 25th street was never very visited. It was a dead end in the middle of the neighborhood, that only the people who lived there visited. It was silent and all the houses had a front yard with flowers. Well not just flowers, roses. Every front yard was filled with bushes of plain white roses. I lived at the end of that street. My house was the dead end.
For a large part of my life I used to sit in the living room looking through the window at the children who played in the sunlight of summer or the coldness of winter. I was never a happy or loved child. And they never loved me. It was only natural, but I always resented it, merely because I thought it was unfair. My family (my grandfather, Edward, who I call Opa, my Aunt Leslie and my older cousin Jerry) said that I was never supposed to be born, that I killed the only soul that had a bright future ahead in that family. I killed my mother. I never knew her name and I only had a picture that they gave me which I assumed it was hers. She was blond, blue eyed and had a white and yellow skin. The photo was old and it had a date, which I narrowed down to 3 months before I was conceived in her poor womb. I don’t care what my family says, she didn’t look happy. And she didn’t look like me.
It’s funny what resentment can do. For years I bared all the hate my family had for me and I never complained. And still I’m quiet and stoic when they decide to pick on me, which is usually around 4, when they’re all home and I’m knitting next to the fireplace. But somehow, today is different.
Last week I found a box while I was cleaning the attic with many pictures. Theres was one that caught my attention; it showed Aunt Leslie in a wedding dress, kissing Opa. It’s their wedding, according to what it says on the back. I found another picture of Jerry and the girl who is supposed to be my mother, holding hands. Her name was Delilah and Jerry isn’t really Jerry, but Kevin. Now, Delilah’s holding the hand of a child, who happened to be me at the age of 2 or 3. It says my name is Georgina, not Christina, like they call me. I discovered that, not only Opa is not my grandfather, Leslie is not his daughter, but Cousin Jerry is my father.
I’ve never considered myself to be violent. Neither hateful. That’s why today, so silent and subtle, like I always am, like I’ve always been, I grab firmly my knitting needle and stab Leslie right in the heart, before she utters anything. Her mouth is opened, surprised and she looks so beautiful with a delicate thread of blood coming down her mouth and sitting on the green leather sofa. Then, I walk steadily over to Opa and I tap on his shoulder and he turns around. First he looks angry, with his defiant look of “what the hell do you want me for” and as quickly as Leslie, he goes down on his knees with my needle stuck on his heart. I kiss him on the forehead and wipe the blood from his mouth with his own handkerchief. I take my needle, clean it, go to the kitchen, grab a knife and look for Kevin. I want him to feel his death coming closer. I knew not why he hated me, nor why I never knew Delilah or why he called me Christina. I don’t want to know either. I’ve made my life and it’s time to finish his.
That’s why I take longer. I go up to his room, needle and knife in hand. I knock on his door and wait for him to answer and then, I come in. He’s sitting in front of his desk, giving me his back, as always. I take the ugly bust of Napoleon and break it on his neck. He’s unconscious and helpless. I tie him up to his bed and star cutting his legs with the knife. It’s all very simple, very easy. I was meant to do this. I go to the bathroom and get a bottle of alcohol and with the odor, I wake him up. He’s restless, disoriented and scared. He even wets his pants and looks so darn pathetic, I actually feel a little bit sorry for him. However, I’m on a mission. I get the alcohol and pour it on his freshly cut wounds. He yells Edward’s name and cries over and over “Leslie”. I call him by his real name and tell him that they are a bit busy to help him. I feel rage when I see his amazement to hear his real name, but it vanishes easily. I look at him right in the eyes and ask him to call me Georgina. To beg me by my real name. And he does it. Hm, no… I don’t like the name. So I grab the knife again and cut a nice shallow wound on his belly and see the blood dripping. The sheets are stained and I laugh at the fact I won’t have to clean them.
I smile. I think how easy it is to do this. I get the knife, stab him right on his navel and with my, so far, trusty needle I stab his heart. He cries one last lament and a sad, silly tear comes from his pale eyes. Yes, he does look like me. I wonder why I never saw it.
I’m off. I’ll find a place to hide, eventually. No one knows I exist, anyway. I’ll find Delilah.

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