The End Is Just...

That day, I finally had enough.

The big empty house was dark; I didn't even bother to turn on the lights. I knew the place by heart, having stalked through it for years without guidance. Usually, I went straight to my room, but today, my final destination was different.

I climbed the winding stairs with the slim railing. Once at the top, I tossed my bag in the direction of my room. It was three doors down on the left; today I was going right.

My parents were hardly ever home. Sometimes, I might run into a housekeeper, but with my temperament, they quickly learned to time their visits while I was away from school. My fiery temper matched the red of my hair. The meals were left in a ridiculously sized fridge making them look even more pathetic. Into the microwave they went every night, if I bothered to eat them.

I knew my parents worked hard for what we had, but this was no life for a child. Ah, but I wasn't a child anymore. Today, I was eighteen. By legal standards, I was an adult. I had enough credits to graduate high school and grades that were adequate enough to appease my absentee parents.

They traveled often, and even when they were in the country, they lived at the museum. My father the archaeologist, my mother the museum curator…they met during an exhibit long before I was born. She started joining him on his adventures until one day they had an “accident” and I was born. She didn't stay with me long, and I was far too young to remember. Even now, I have trouble recalling their faces. I know them best by the so-called “presents” they bring me back from their travels and the artistic painting of them that hangs in the hallway of the second floor.

I pause in front of that painting, looking up at the regal couple depicted in it. My mother's fiery hair was passed onto me, though in this painting there are no freckles visible unlike my face where they are etched into my cheeks. My father has dusty blonde hair, swept to the side and hidden beneath a wide brimmed hat. His blue eyes sparkle at me with laughter, but my blue eyes are dull as they stare back. They look so happy here. And as always, they seem so far away.

I turn and clench my hands. They were happier before I was born. Now they avoided me, but I heard from the housekeepers’ gossip that they fought when I was younger. It was always over me and always ended with them hiring some stranger to take care of me while they were away. I remember that part at least. First it was teenagers from the school I now attended, then it was Filipino women that could barely speak English. At least they were nice, they showed me affection I wasn't used to. But that was only until I was twelve and suddenly I was old enough to stay by myself. Things just got worse from there.

The loneliness quickly turned to rage. It was like a fire growing inside me. The flames licked at my insides, ate away at the happy memories until I was left bitter. That anger festered for six years. It burned away all the good inside me until I hated everyone, including myself.

That's what brought me to my decision. I was trembling by the time I reached the door to their workshop. I was never allowed in there, though it never stopped me from peeking. They stored their precious trinkets uncovered in far away places that I couldn't even find on a map. Journals lined one wall that detailed their every adventure. I was the one thing that held them back from throwing themselves entirely into it. This room was their safe haven in this obnoxiously huge house they bought with me as an excuse. I'm not even sure if they ever slept in their bedroom. There were even cots tucked away in this room.

I steeled myself and grabbed the knob. With a quick turn, I yanked it open. They didn't bother to lock it, still thinking me the same skittish child who never dared disobey their rules. I had stopped listening long ago, but I was good at hiding it.

The dark shapes rose up like ghouls in the darkness. The windows were covered with gossamer drapes, keeping the sun from fading any of their precious pieces. The sky outside right now rolled past in an angry grey. The occasional bolt of lightning flashing bright was the only illumination I needed.

My parents carefully cataloged every single piece in their collection before examining them and eventually showcasing them in the museum. Their current discovery was perfect for what I was about to do. An old tomb, dedicated to an angry goddess and the demon king. The artifacts were stained with what could have been rust or even blood. The theory surmised human sacrifice, but there was no concrete evidence. All they found was one little decrepit tomb deep in the mountains of some country I couldn't even pronounce.

The lore behind it mattered little to me- I was more interested in what they had unearthed. Amongst all the jewels and statues was the one piece that interested me. A pretty little thing with an engraved ornate handle. Its blade was dark and jagged, but still sharp to the touch. It was exactly what I was looking for.

If they wanted to continue to choose their work over their only child, I'd make it easier for them. That's what I had come to do.

I stalked towards a long table, careful to sidestep around the vases and statues on the floor. Each piece was spread out on its own little tarp. Tools and notes lay discarded around them. It always looked so disorganized to me, but they knew if even a single thing shifted. Not that I'd be hiding that I was here this time.

I slowly reached out and wrapped my hand around the handle of the dagger. I waited for a moment, as if waiting for them to notice even when they were far away. I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I let it out.

Delicately, I brought the dagger towards me. My hands were shaking as I held it up. I clasped my other hand around it for support and stared down at it.

No, I wasn’t afraid. The tremble in my body was of excitement. I would win this stupid little game they wanted to play. Any pain I suffered was irrelevant if it meant that I could have my revenge. Enough was enough.

I tightened my grip around the handle. The rest was over in a flash. I brought the blade to my throat and with a quick motion, cut through the soft of my flesh. I felt the warmth spill out of my neck and over my fingers.

The pain was sharp and burning, but I barely had time to register it. I heard the clank of the dagger as it hit the floor, my body following a moment later. And then, there was darkness.