A/N: I found this on my computer and I thought why not?


I used to be just a normal kid you know. I never was anything special, just your average neighborhood guy, who made C's in school, played football, and hung out at the local pizza parlor every Friday. My parents weren't hippies, or terrorists, or crime lords. They both went to college and graduated with GRE's and now work in the typical blue color jobs. My Mom's one of those clerks in the stores and my Dad does something with business loans, but I never really cared enough to find out. I guess it's too late for that now. I have a younger sister, Marcie. She's only ten. She likes chocolate, dolls and the color pink. She's real cute when she and her Mary Sue friend dress up and go around talking with an English accent. She lives with my Aunt Jane now. I see her sometimes when she comes to visit me, but she doesn't talk much. She's too young to understand, hell, nobody understands.

You're probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about. Well, I'm in jail. It's not that bad actually when you sit and think about it for awhile. I mean, you have a room, a toilet, you're not starved or anything, and you even get to get out and exercise a little. The psychologists aren't any fun though. They come in and make you lay on a couch. "Tell me about your mother?" or "Did you have a happy childhood?" a whole bunch of other shit that's somehow supposed to help me with my "problems." The truth is, is that I don't have a problem. I just messed up…big time.

Mary was the first one who suggested that I keep a journal. Mary's the only sane person around here other than the cops. She's kind of like the prison educator. She goes around and teaches subjects like English, Math, and Science. She's real nice, but not much of a looker. She's kind of dumpy and plain, but they probably don't pick beautiful women to work in prisons, for good reasons too. She suggested the journal as an English assignment, though I think one of the psychologists told her to do it. I'm only doing to please her not any of those psycho freaks who talk in whispers and say stuff like "the inner eye," and my "ego." What the hell is an ego? She told me to recount everything that happened that night. I really don't want to; hell I'd rather poke my eye out with the pencil I writing with.

I got the idea from a TV show, really. It seemed so logical, I mean if you want to make it rich big time, why not get your parents life insurance? The glitch….you have to kill your parents to do. Don't get me wrong, I loved my family. My mom was the sort of mother who would let you stay out all night and get completely pissed as long as you finished your homework and chores. She used to bake cookies every Friday. I remember coming home from a shit-full day and smelling melted chocolate. She never was into that "go to your room because I told you so" crap. She believed that her kids were their own people and would make their own lives. Dad was boring in a funny kind of way. I'd come home and say something like "hey Dad, Zoë got completely smashed last night and got banged by Mic. Now she has to go in a get an abortion," and he'd say "only three people came into work today, because the other two were on maternity leave." Like that was important to Zoe fucking up and getting pregnant? He used to like to do boring stuff like calculate things. He'd just sit for like four hours with this little calculator and calculate statistics about some stocks rising and falling or something like that. Ah well, at least he liked to save money.

Anyways, one night, I'm watching this "Court Files" or something like that and I suddenly get this idea. You see, I've always wanted to be a guitar player, be in a band you know, get famous. Except, my Dad wouldn't buy me a guitar and I could pay for it, because I was already using the money I earned from my weekend job to pay for gas and repairs to my car. So I needed the money bad. I mean this guy like completely broadsided me and completely smashed up the right side of my car. And of Mom and Dad, "I sure you can deal with it honey." Shit! You know how much money that damn accident cost me? 25,000 fucking dollars! Plus part of my health insurance since I practically flew through the window shield!

I thought, "why not?" I mean I'd get the money? Right? Any person would do it if they needed it bad enough. So I thought about what I could do. I didn't want to really hurt them. I mean the guy in the TV show like shot them 60 times. I couldn't do that to my Mom and Dad. When I was thinking, sitting there, I was staring at the fire and suddenly pow! It came to me, the perfect solution. Of course it seemed cool at the time. Nobody would ever think up this. So the next day I went to the hardware store and bought one of those long tubes with a nozzle at the end that use to spray paint with and so duct tape.

I have to admit, I was a little nervous. What if they found out? God, then they'd stick me in some psycho school with the damn psychologists. That night, when Mom and Dad were watching TV in the sitting room (Marcie was asleep), I snuck into the garage and taped the hose to the car exhaust pipe and then set it next to the sitting room door. I nearly had a heart attack when Dad looked over his shoulder at me and told me that some family had just bought a new house or something like that. The details are kind of hazy. I told them I was going out for awhile and then went back, got the car keys and started the engine.

I sat there for about, I don't know, 10 minutes and then went around the back of the house to look through the window looking into the sitting room. They were just sitting there, kind of slouched over. I waited, still watching for like 15 more minutes and then went back, turned the car off, detached the hose and threw in a black trash bag. I then drove over to some deserted street and hid the hose inside a trash can. I didn't think anybody would look there, but apparently I did something wrong or I would be here in prison.

Later, I called 911 and said I came home and found them that way. They like totally believed me. I even cried a little. And then that nutshell detective guy came in and he kind of looked at me, like he could see right through me, like he knew that I did it.

Afterwards, well there's not much afterwards, because in the end I cracked. I held out, but that detective guy and his damn scary eyes just wouldn't leave me alone. It's like he already had figured it out and was just waiting for me to loose it and confess. I held out strong at first, but in the end, it's like I wanted to get caught because a part of me knew that what I had done was wrong. I mean, I killed my parents, I killed my parents.

I'm normal, I just screwed up. It's like I had one moment of insanity and it warped my life forever. Marcie barely ever talks to me now; hell, the guitar sounds so lame. I can't even play the guitar. Why'd I do it? I don't know why? I wanted the money? I just knew at the moment that all I wanted was to kill them, to watch them slowly suffocate. It was like getting high. It felt awesome and terrible at the same time. I'm just you're average kid….I just made a mistake, one I can't ever take back no matter how hard I wish. That's why I wrote all this down. Not for Mary, not for the psychologists, but for me, for me.

I have it all planned out. I'm kept in isolation from the rest of the other criminals….criminals…am I really one? I've braided my bed sheets into a knot. There's a light fixture on the ceiling that I can tie it to. I never thought I'd be a killer. I'm doing this for myself. I don't want to be a psychotic murderer. I want to be normal, just like I was a month ago. This has been the only journal entry I've written. I figure, once I'm dead, Marci can have it and then she'll know what it's like. That I didn't do because I hated my parents….not really.

I love you Marci,