Seven years ago, my father died while in the field. He was chasing a mass murderer that had killed hundreds of people in a casino. His force was determined to catch him and stop everything he would ever do. That was why they sent him out that day. His chief told me later that he had wanted to go out. That he wanted to not only protect his family, but also the others that were in danger. I wish he hadn’t been so heroic. They went to where they suspected the murderer to be hiding, and they were correct. But the happiness didn’t last long. Somehow, the killer knew they were coming, and knew they were after him. So he prepared with weapons, hiding in the ceiling to get the best vantage point. And he did. Because as soon as the team marched in, guns held ready, declaring that the murderer was going to jail, he sniped each one of them. I never saw my father again.

I was only nine then, but my age didn’t matter. At first, I blamed the chief. But that was unfair. He couldn’t have known that someone had tipped the murderer off. Then, I blamed the actual killer, and their accomplice. Over the years, my hatred has grown, and that led to what I did. What I became.

It was July 24, 2015, the anniversary of my father’s death. On that day, it had been six years without him. My hatred blazed within me like a wildfire. I had been planning my revenge for over a year, tracking the murderer with technology that my father hid from me when I was a child. I was ahead of the police, and that was exactly what I wanted. I spent the day with my mother and younger brother, comforting them as we visited My father’s grave, but honestly, my mind wasn’t focused on grief. I had bigger plans that day. As soon as the daylight faded to night, I snuck out of the house, climbing through my window. I was careful not to make any noise, seen as my brother’s room was right next door to mine, but I still was not very quiet, rustling leaves, and hitting the dirt roughly. I had just barely reached the ground when I saw my brother’s tiny, half asleep face peek out.

“Hello?” I didn’t respond, hoping he would just go back to bed. He didn’t. “It’s not nice to ignore people. Where are you going?” I didn’t want to lie, but in this case, I had to. Besides, he was right. It wasn’t nice to ignore people.

“Just to a friend’s.” A smile spread across his sleepy face.

“Like Justin?” Justin was a boy that had once come to the house and asked me out. I had said no, but my idiotic brother would never leave me alone about it. I rolled my eyes.

“NO.”

“Fine, have fun!” He made a kissy face. I turned around and left him alone.

I rode my bike to where I had found out his current residence was. Then, I shouldered my father’s old rifle and checked my pockets for the daggers I had hid there. That murderer would pay.

He lived in a brick family home, something he probably did for appearances. There was no way someone would marry such a jerk. Sure, it had been a while since he had last killed someone, but that didn’t erase the fact that he had killed. I snuck through another window, one that he had probably accidentally left open. For a murderer, he really wasn’t that bright. When I landed inside, I was in a room that was decorated with pink and princesses. A little girl slept in a bed in the corner. I was confused at the sight, but my need for revenge made me ignore the signs. I left the room as quietly as possible, and entered a hallway. At the end was a fancy double door entrance. The master bedroom. I crept in, the floor boards creaking a bit with each step. There, on the bed was my target. Next to him was a woman. My second sign. But I didn’t care. I ran over to the sleeping man, too eager to be silent. His eyes fluttered open just in time to see my angry face before I lodged a dagger in his heart. But I acted too rashly. The woman beside him looked at me with horror in her eyes, then pulled out a shotgun from the bedside table. She closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. I was too slow.

That was the day I died. And I regret it, because I made one more family like mine. Without a father, even if he had been a killer.