I slashed her face twice, the knife carving deep, jagged wounds. Her once-pristine skin peeled back, revealing raw flesh beneath. The satisfaction was fleeting, but it dulled the edge of my fury.
The tip of the knife hovered at her chest. Slowly, it slid downward.
The thought of cutting open her heart pulsed through me, growing stronger with every passing second.
But just as I was about to surrender entirely to the darkness, a sound pierced through the haze of my rage—the faint cry of my daughter from the other room.
Reality crashed back, like a wave dousing a roaring flame.
I stood frozen, the knife trembling in my hand. My breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, reason clawed its way back into my mind.
My daughter.
Her innocent face flashed in my thoughts, cutting through the torrent of hate.
To ensure there were no survivors, I returned to check one last time.
My heart twisted as I found my daughter, lifeless in her crib. She had passed long ago after drinking the milk powder I prepared.
After all, she was my daughter. I gave her mercy—a painless escape from this cruel world.
I cradled her cold, fragile body 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 let the stench of blood dissipate into the air outside. The metallic tang hung heavily, but I had grown numb to it.
I called the police.
Before they arrived, I turned my attention back to Elysia. With what strength I had left, I made sure 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 plate my mother had prepared before she died. How ironic. I ate each piece slowly, savoring the bitter sweetness of her final gesture.
The last slice was still in my mouth when the police burst through the door.
They rushed to Elysia, barely clinging to life, and whisked her off to the hospital. The house swarmed with officers, taking photos and gathering evidence.
If I weren’t their son, this would have been called a massacre—a tragedy that nearly wiped out an entire family.
Outside, the neighbors gathered, their voices a cacophony of anger and disbelief.