The First One Wasn't Planned
325 Words
She was fifteen.
The world called it an accident.
She knew better.
The first man she ever killed was her mother’s boyfriend, Craig. He was charming in public — always smiling, always pretending. But behind closed doors, he was the devil in human skin.
Her mother never saw it. Or maybe she did and chose not to.
The bruises were never on her face. Always her ribs. Her thighs. Her back.
But one night… he came for her.
She’d heard the floorboards creak before he opened the door.
She’d hidden under the bed, hands shaking, holding her breath. He reeked of whiskey. Called her pet names that made her stomach turn. He told her it was okay. That it was their secret.
But she didn't scream.
She reached under the bed and found the rusted screwdriver she used to fix her broken bookshelf.
And when he knelt to grab her wrist, she stabbed him — once. Twice. Then again. And again.
She didn’t stop until he stopped making sounds.
Her hands were soaked in blood.
Her body shaking.
But her heart — was still.
No panic. No tears. Just silence.
She cleaned up. Dragged his body to the shed. Wiped everything down. Told her mother he left. That she saw him pack and storm off.
No one questioned her.
No one looked for him.
And just like that, she realized: Some monsters don't deserve to live.
That was her beginning.
Not revenge. Not justice.
Survival.
And now… years later, every time she killed, she thought of that moment. That silence. That cold clarity.
Her next target had surfaced: a man who ran a “correctional” facility for troubled teens — but behind the scenes, he was known for using "discipline" as a cover for abuse.
She watched him through her camera lens from across the street.
The same steady heartbeat.
The same calm breath.
Only now, it wasn’t fear driving her.
It was purpose.
- Writer
