The key to the perfect murder isn't a good mind so much as a good stomach. Watching a round of live ammunition pass through another person's body is messy business, something most people aren't naturally suited for. In those few short moments, the shooter gets to witness as everything that's supposed to remain on a person's insides become their outsides and a certain sense of primal disgust makes the sight of it disturbing.

The sounds of my mother crying out in pain and my father's hand repeatedly slapping her made me forget about this. My hands weren't even shaking as I reached for the drawer my father carelessly hid his revolver in, and my fingers were no less dexterous loading it than they'd been at any other time. I almost felt a sense of morbid satisfaction as I felt the cylinder click into place.

"You stupid, fucking bitch!" my father shouted, alcohol laced spittle dribbling from his mouth. I listened as he beat my mother, the sounds of each impact another lash on my mind, my face cold as I prepared myself for what I had planned. 'I'm going to kill him,' I thought. The realization that I had that kind of power in my hand made me feel anxious.

I stepped into the living room, watching with a sort of callous calm as my father continued to beat my mother. I didn't smile, I didn't cry. My hand rose up, front post meeting rear notch as I took aim. It took my father a few moments to even realize something was going on.

"Tabitha," he said, looking from the gun to my face. He slowly stood up, moving towards me with that careful tread the wolf gives when approaching a lamb. I pulled the hammer back, tightening my hold on the trigger, and he stood still.

This lamb had teeth.

"You don't want to do this, Tabby," he said, his words far too calm and collected for anyone who’d just downed a pint of Jack. "You’re one in a million, kid! You know I love you.”

In some small part of me, I wanted his words to ring true. I wanted him to mean every line, every syllable. I wanted to put the gun down and jump in his arms and feel that loving, tender caress I hadn’t had from him in years. Any child my age would’ve already done so.

But I wasn’t a child anymore. After having been beaten myself more times than I'd care to count, after having stared into the mirror to look at the empty sockets where teeth should be, I couldn't be.

"No."

I squeezed the trigger and flinched at the loud retort. My ears barely rang, and the second time I fired, I didn't even hear the gunshot. My father stumbled back, gasping for breath, fingers reaching down to trace a hole I could shove a roll of quarters into. Blood ran down his shirt like a sleeve. I didn’t even feel the tears running down my face.

The next two shots came easier. With the gun lined up, I added some new holes to his body, watching as he slumped back against the wall. There was nothing but silence for a few moments, then I turned to look at my mother. Our eyes met for a moment, mine cold and hers terrified.

I smiled, and she screamed.