The light to the corridor was lit briefly by a single lamp at the end. They never turn it off anymore. Not since he woke up one night, scared in his sleep, and fell down the stairs. The boy walked quietly, emptiness was all that his eyes showed. But inside his head, was chaos. He couldn't shut them out, all the voices shouting at him. Do it now, you almost did it before. He kept a straight face, he didn’t feel anything, he only listened to his head. If someone had seen him, they'd think he's sleep walking. But he was awake. And he knew where he was going. They'd told him everything. The whole scene had been planned in his head for days. His steps were steady, never slowing down, and never gaining speed. His eyes were fixed on his target. And his hand was holding his weapon.
He reached the door at the end of the corridor. Without thinking twice, he turned the doorknob down. His parents were both heavy sleepers, he knew they wouldn’t wake up when he entered their room. It was all in his plan. Their plan. All calculated. All justified. Too bright for his age, his teachers would tell his parents. But no one knew just how bright.
He stopped right next to the bed. Let his eyes take in the sight of his mother one last time. He loved her. He almost worshiped her. And he thought she was the purest human on earth. That’s why he made up his plan. The world doesn't deserve her. A voice whispered. Your dad doesn't love her. Said another. His hand was in the air, the knife hung up and ready to fall down at her skin. Do it, don't be afraid. His eyes were still empty, and his nerves stronger than ever.
The voices got louder. Asking him to just put the knife in her chest. Demanding him to end it. He reached out silently. He touched her face. She was an angel. He was only helping her return to where she belongs. To heaven. No one will understand. Not even her. His hand wanted to pull back suddenly. He wanted to fight the voices. He tried. He tried to shut them out. He tried to walk away. He was going to miss her. But they were stronger than him. A tear escaped his eye. It rolled slowly down his cheek. People in his head were whispering louder. Some were yelling. Do it. Do it. Do it. He listened. Because he had no other choice.
It was too much. It was all too much for a little boy. He let them in. He listened. He believed them. The knife was in her chest. It made a squishy sound while penetrating her skin. The sound satisfied the voices. He stood there, eyes on his masterpiece. Or theirs. Red viscous liquid oozing out from a small wound. It splayed out on her exposed skin. He needed to leave. His father would wake up. He wants to kill you. They said. He's always wanted to kill you. He would never understand. He needed to get out of there. But his plan was too perfect to play out accordingly.
Shouting. Gasping. Crying. His father, awake, and staring at what his son had done. He's the enemy. They screamed. Don't believe him. Pain, it was on his father's face. And terror. He didn't believe him, he listened to the voices. He trusted the voices.
The knife dropped from his hand. The pain he felt was too much. He shouldn't have listened. He should have fought them. No one would understand.