I used a combination of Febreze, Lysol, some cheap incense bought while picking up a Gatorade from the gas station and one of those plug-in air fresheners that shoot out a smelly mist of freshness every few minutes, yet, none of it worked because the fucking smell of death still lingers in the air. This revelation of lingering dead body stench makes me re-examine the hastiness in which I killed my parents. Maybe I should’ve exercised some restraint. Or, at least thought it through more. Pushing them overboard on a cruise ship while on vacation would have required less clean up — but they never went on vacations, unless you count the Poconos, I don’t. Stabbing them at a rest stop on our way to Nanna’s for Christmas, blaming it on a mugger, preferably a young black or hispanic male as to ensure the case would no doubt forever be linked to a string of other unsolved crimes fitting such vague descriptions. I could have given myself a not-so-serious wound that would have been from the result of me trying to save them from the attack, making me look courageous and unselfishly loving; which I could have parlayed into many sexual acts from gushy teens wanting to fuck the guy from TV who tried to save his parents. Chicks eat that hero shit up. But no, I had to act rashly and kill them after we argued for the fifth time this week. They threw my Xbox out. I was pissed about the Xbox but that’s not what made me lash out.

I was annoyed, not so much angry, the Xbox made me angry, but annoyed that they accused me of being gay, again. This was the fourth time this year, but the very first time they flat out just accused me. Personally, it’s no one’s business if I prefer to suck a dick or eat a pussy, it’s my damn mouth and I’ll choose to please whomever, however, I want. But my parents insisted that if I preferred dick in my mouth over pussy, this was a horrible wrong, blasphemous they said, and it needed to be fixed. I’d need Jesus, a shrink and a healthy dose of girl on girl porn. Oh, and they were seriously considering sending me to boot camp which in hindsight is pretty hilarious when you think about it. If your son is gay why would you want to send him to a place with nothing but teenage boys and young adult men that perform grueling tasks all day that leave them glistening with sweat. My parents obviously were not the brightest bulbs in the pack.

Back to the problem at hand, this damn stench. I can’t get rid of it and soon people are going to start coming over wondering where my parents are and why I haven’t been to school. Of course, I have an explanation set and ready to go. My parents had to go out of town in a hurry to go see my Nanna who just suffered a massive heart attack and stroke. I decided that two serious health emergencies at once would only heighten the problem and make it all the more reasonable for my parents to have just left without saying a word to anyone. And why didn’t I go, they’d ask, I was sick of course. Plus, I didn’t want to see my Nanna in a hospital like that. I even practiced, in the bathroom, crying on cue to strengthen my fragile emotional demeanor, while also guilting whomever was the questioning body at the time to cease with any further inquiries and leave.

The living room is the biggest problem. I managed to rid the hallway and kitchen of the blood my dad trickled through the house when he was aimlessly searching for the phone the last few moments of his life. He bled all over the damn living room. His face was shocked when I stabbed him with his beloved antique sword he claimed was used in the Revolutionary War. I always thought it looked like a replica. The face my mom made was a mix between bewilderment and shock. But neither of their expressions could match the unfiltered shock and excitement I had when the blood from my dad’s throat splattered all over my mom’s pristine flower patterned couch. It was like masturbating for the first time.

Let me give you a simple layout of the downstairs of the house. When you enter from the front door, to the right is the living room, to the left is where my parents kept all their fancy shit, antiques, books, Faberge, you know, fancy shit, the stairs are about ten steps directly away from the front door, straight back past the stairs is the kitchen. My mom ran upstairs screaming, if she would have taken ten steps to the left of the living room and went out the front door she’d probably still be alive and I’d be in jail right now. But she took the stairs. Like I said, my parents weren’t exactly road scholars even if they liked to portray that they were.

She locked herself in the bathroom and tried to call the police, which I have to admit, was pretty smart. Unfortunately for her I had ripped the phone cord out of the wall. I broke the door down with the sword. When I got into the bathroom she immediately started asking me to stop, saying that she loved me. She told me I didn’t have to do this. I told her I already killed dad, so yea, I did have to do this. And I took great pleasure in reminding her that she would always complain about how I would never finish what I started. So, I told her she should be happy that I’m finally finishing what I’ve started, the irony, right? I had to laugh. Then she asked me why. Why did I kill my dad? Why did I want to kill her? Why was I doing what I was doing?

I wasn’t sure why. I wasn’t prepared to hear that. I should have been considering the context of the situation, but I wasn’t. I stood there for a moment thinking. My mom used my hesitation as an opportunity, she pushed passed me and ran into the bedroom. I tackled her from behind, got on top and using the belt from her silk robe — I hated that robe it was the color booger green — I strangled her. As I pulled at the edges of the belt, tightening it around her neck, I could see the color in her face changing, her eyes began to bulge. Not sure why, maybe it was how she was staring at me, a combination of a sad puppy dog and a Margaret Keane painting, but just then it dawned on me why I was doing this. I leaned down and whispered it in her ear. I hate you.

After about a week the inquiries into my Nanna’s health and my parents impending return started to heat up. So I knew my time was beginning to run out and a move needed to be made. I sold my parent’s fancy shit online, antiques, books, Faberge, even the Revolutionary Sword I killed my dad with, a little bit of cleaning and the thing looked new, well, antique new. I even used Craigslist to sell the stereo and the flat-screen TV from the basement. Making sure the buyer came during the day when I knew the neighbors would either be at work or school. Excluding Mrs. Johnson who never left her damn house, but was about three breaths away from death and couldn’t see five feet in front of her. Being 98 will do that to you.

My mom only allowed my dad to smoke twice a week, and it had to be at night. But he’d sneak a few smokes during the day, a few hits of cologne and my mom was none the wiser. I told the police that my mom let my dad smoke a few cigarettes in the house when they got back, she was being sympathetic to his mother being sick. My dad battling tiredness and emotional fatigue forgot to put his cigarette completely out which in all the bad luck in the world somehow managed to roll off the nightstand onto the couch. My parents who’d fallen asleep under the influence of a few glasses of wine didn’t notice the fire until it was too late. I even went as far as to place the bodies in the room to make it appear as if they were trying to get out but just couldn’t before the flames took them. I, being the young spry that I am, was able to escape with minor burns to my left leg and back, done for dramatic effort of course. I was a bit surprised at not only how smooth the lie came out but how easily the cops digested it. I didn’t expect the burning down of a house and the death of two parents to be met with such little friction. A grieving teenage boy who lost his parents and home is a stronger sympathy case than I anticipated. My pussy game is going to skyrocket.

I’m staying with my aunt for the time being. She’s my mom’s younger sister, they never liked each other, we’ve never liked each other, but she welcomed me with open arms when I came attached with my parent’s insurance check, the sum of two hundred thousand dollars, apiece. Being under age and she now being my new legal guardian gave her control of the money until I turned eighteen. She’ll definitely spend the next year partying and testing the limits of her nose snorting coke and killing off whatever brain cells’ she has left. Which means I won’t be seeing a cent of that insurance money. But that’s ok, I made sure to not burn my mom’s jewelry and dad’s watches. I’ll be selling those down the road. I also made a good deal of money selling my parents fancy shit. The money safely stashed away until the time comes when I need it. And I suspect it will come soon. My story isn’t rock solid, it has its holes.

The police will have a fire investigator figure out what started the fire. During his investigation he’ll discover small amounts of gas around the area of the couch. The fire needed some help, so I lent it a hand. It’s not a enough to say it was a definite arson, the gas could have easily been accidentally spilled from my dad trying to get the fireplace lit, I know what you’re thinking, no one uses gas to start a fire but the neighbors will corroborate my dad’s tendency for foolish behavior and his deficiency to basic aerial dynamics, saying he was clumsy would be nice. But no matter if they rule it an arson or not, it’s enough to start asking questions. Those questions will lead them to my Nanna who they’ll discover is in great health and hasn’t heard from her son or his pompous wife in almost three weeks. The bodies burned to a nice crispy char, it’ll take a long time before they figure out actual cause of death, if ever. But the sketchy business of the fire and the truth about my lies regarding the health of my Nanna will no doubt bring the police digging for answers. They won’t have enough for an arrest so they’ll just bring me in for what I would expect to be a long grueling day of questioning. But they’ll have to let me go, and go I will. Out of town, out of state, new name, new life.

I’ve gotten into a pretty serious online relationship with a twenty four year old woman from San Diego. Which means she could really be a fifty-year-old man with a beer belly and a fondness for stained wife beaters and sandals. I told her I was eighteen. It’s not far off from the truth. I’ll be seventeen next week and a year can go by pretty quick. Regardless, sexyGoTvixen99, has said she’d take me in when the time came. She thinks that time is when I’m fed up with my abusive father and drug addicted whore of a mother. I’ve already planted the seed that I’m frightened my father might one day seriously hurt me or my mother, possibly even kill one or both of us. This way I can say in an act of self-defence I stabbed my father and went on the run because no one would believe me. I’ve had a few run-ins with the law, labeling me a misguided troublemaker. In reality, I’ve been an angel all my life — never been in a fight, gotten arrested, or had detention at school — except for that minor thing of killing my parents, I’ve been angel. sexyGotVixen99 being the kind and understanding type would feel sorry for me and my whole fucked up way of having to live up into that point; which would give her this obligatory sense to protect me that will ultimately lead her to aiding and abetting a murderer. But until that time comes I sit and wait. Porn helps on the slow days.

this first appeared on my site…