A Memory

My look at what blanked Nny's mind.


Blam.

I hate guns, I really do.

Blam.

They bring back such unpleasant memories.

Blam.


My father was a bastard, plain and simple. Being around him was like handling a ticking time bomb, and it was almost a relief when he finally went off.

It was the day of my senior prom. It shouldn't have been–I was only 15–but I'd skipped three grades already. I always was a bright kid, unlike my dad, and it was one of the things he hated most about me.

I had brushed my hair and was putting on my best jacket when the fight started. It was nothing new, really: my parents hated each other. I have no clue why they married in the first place, I really don't.

"You idiot!"

"You bitch! You stupid, cheating, evil bitch!"

And he pulled out a gun. I don't think she even noticed, though. My mother was blind with rage, as was so often the case during their fights.

Blam. Blam. Blam.

Have you ever seen someone get shot in the head? It's not a very fun sight. Not even for me.

Kill him.

It wasn't the first time I'd heard that voice, but this was the first time I had agreed. In fact, I'd already come to that conclusion without the whispering that later became Mr. Eff.

"Hey there, Daddy."

He glared at me. "What the Hell do you want, you little–"

I put a steak knife through his head and left.

You read Carrie, Nny? asked another voice.

Of course, P.D.

Well, then–shall we give the bullies a prom they'll never forget, or what?

Alright. Guess we may as well go out with a bang.

And it was quite the prom, trust me, even though we didn't 'go out'–and haven't yet.