Down With The Sickness free porn video

Author's Note: This story is something like an unofficial 'part two' to 'My Sister' by Anon Writer Down with the Sickness By Lynn LeFey When was the precise moment? I can't say. Finding the CD sleeve? Finding the home-made CD? Listening to it? The moment I head the harsh, feral screech, that awoke the memory of the past... somehow coalescing all my long days of loathing and anger into determination? If you've come here for some hot, lusty tale of a he-she forced into a life of servitude... well, I can tell you now; this is not your tale. This is chapter two. This is what happens when that sick, aching hatred of yourself for giving up your soul, for falling for their shit... this is what happens when you come to understand the truth. The past can't be undone. Monsters are MADE, not born. And, most importantly, you had damn well better be willing to pay for your crimes. I'm Michelle. At least, I have been for some seven years now. It was necessary, in a way. My sister traded my manhood for her own sanity... what little was left of it. She's a completely fucked up... Well, she goes by 'he' now. That's her crime. She traded me to the monster for her own freedom. She was my misogynistic rapist father's little fuck-toy, before she convinced him that I could take her place. My father is a twisted pervert, first raping his daughter, then me. Not once, not a couple of times, but time and again... forever. That's his crime. Now, I'm his rape-toy, and his domestic servant. I've been the dupe, falling for my sister's trap, and after it was sprung, being the apathetic victim of my own fate. That's my crime. And then there's mother. She just sat and watched it all happen. That was her crime. My sister went so far as pushing her former husband into sex-change. He's the perfect subservient little wifey now. He and I share our crimes... passively letting this shit happen. Sometimes it's easy to deny our sins to ourselves. Sometimes it's easy to be the victim. Sometimes our fear and humiliation hang over us, like a prison sentence. I let this happen to me because somewhere I harbored the belief that I deserved what I got for being the stupid fuck I am. The CD changed it. It was a mix of songs, as usual, pirated from some music site, and burned onto the blank CD. 80 minutes of music. That's all it was. Or, all it SHOULD HAVE been. Instead, it was a key. One, it reminded me who I used to be. And two, it was the specific song. It reawakened a spark of resistance. The song was 'Down with the Sickness', by Disturbed. Something in it gave rise to a little voice. A whisper in the back of my mind. It didn't SPEAK, per say, but was a realization. Physical strength was not power, and Fury never went away. I pondered on these thoughts, musing over them in the days following the discovery of the CD. It had been in a soft binder of loose pages in a CD jacket, and had obviously fallen out long before I started along my path as Michelle. I used to love computer work. I used to LIVE in cyber- space. In the process of the change, all that 'boy' stuff had been stripped away. All the trappings of masculinity had been removed from my room, to be replaced with the standard 17-year-old girl fair. Posters of pop idols, little toy horses. Crap. All empty, hollow... lies. I'd asked why the computer had been taken away, explaining that lots of women were in the Information Technology field. My father had resorted to the 'Women shouldn't try to think too much' crap. That night, I managed something I'd never done before. After dinner, as he led me upstairs to rape me, as he did several times a week, I tore my hand from his grip and looked him in the eye. I had never been able to look him in the eye before that night... not since the first night he had me. My act of defiance seemed to only fuel his sick sexual drive. I bled heavily that night. There had been talk about getting me 'fixed' like my 'brother's wife' had been fixed... getting my worthless penis removed... having another orifice constructed. It was just another thing for my father to stick his dick into. The changes my body had undergone due to HRT were irreversible. I was going to have breasts for the rest of my life. I had settled myself with that fact, but my penis, once removed, could not be undone. As my former sister had proved, radical mastectomy was not that horrific a procedure. My father's major argument toward me getting the work was that once he was tired of me, I would be more valuable to another man if properly equipped. Do you feel the love radiating from this... fucking monster? I realized it was not fear, self-pity, or self-loathing I felt, as had been my emotional outlook for almost seven years. It was fury. It was not cut, diluted, or dulled. It hit me like a wave of righteousness. With it a clear understanding came. You must be willing to pay for your crime. All of us... Me, my mother, my brother, and... most of all... the monster, my father... the rat-fucking-bastard that started this all. I flashed back on the thought of Vampire myth. There was one vampire who infected all the others in the group. An old experience of mine playing the Role-playing Game called 'Vampire: the Masquerade', returned a word to my mind... 'Childer', the creation of an elder vampire. My brother and I were not only children of my father... we were his childer as well. We were made monsters. Whoever fights monsters should be careful not to become monsters themselves. Nice thought, but it was in reverse. I'd already been made into a monster, but now it was time to end this. The seed had been planted, but now it fell upon me to play judge, jury, and executioner. The first two were easy. My father was guilty, as were my brother, and my mother. To be honest, so was I, in my own way. My brother's wife, Mary... I don't know. I didn't feel right in passing judgment on her. The others though... that was easy enough. They would be punished. I would be the instrument of that punishment, and I would, in turn, face the punishment for my decision. ... The first thing I needed to do was prepare myself, equip myself. Both my father and my brother were vastly stronger than I. But, as my brother (then my sister) had drugged me when starting my transition, I could use that old favored method here. It seemed fitting. Once unconscious, or semiconscious, I could deal the final lethal strike with something as simple as a paring knife. I would need to be precise in my actions, and that would take some studying. My mother had two afternoons through the week where she would leave the house to do her errands. That could leave me sufficient time to slip off to the local library and hit the internet, or study medical books. That would also give me opportunity to possibly purchase tranquilizers. I'd need to get a credit card receipt and copy the number from that. I didn't think any of that sounded all that difficult. The next time my mother returned from the grocery store, I went over the receipt, telling her I thought they'd overcharged us in the past. She seemed to buy it. I was able to memorize the credit card number, at least long enough to write it down when I got to my room. It was another week (and three more times being forced to sate my father's lust) before I had the opportunity to get to the library again. I requested ground delivery, hoping that when it arrived, my mother would be off on one of her errands. I listened to that CD, the track with the song (I now considered it my anthem), every evening before I went to sleep. I dredged up my pain, so long repressed, and shoveled it into the furnace of hatred. I had a lot of fuel. As it grew, day by day, my surface persona remained passive, and seemingly apathetic. There were moments when I reflected on whether I was wholly sane any more. A soft, gentle little voice reassured me "Of course you're not sane any more. You've been force- feminized, raped repeatedly by your father, beaten down, and are plotting murder. But, hey... insanity makes a hell of a legal defense". I wanted to chuckle. My mind, regardless of any other condition, at least retained its sense of humor. Something in that bothered me though. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had assumed I would perform this act, and be punished for it. Maybe even put to death. HOPEFULLY... put to death. What if I wasn't? How would I feel about living on, punished for the rest of my days? Worse, what if I was ruled innocent? I didn't believe that. I didn't think I was insane. I KNEW what I was doing. I deserved punishment under the law. ... We had a very nice dining room set, made of oak. Very sturdy chairs. This is where I decided to stage my act. I would feed them, I would drug them, and I would kill them. I pondered how best to do it. I thought there were possible margins of forgiveness, perhaps, but daddy dearest was dead. No question, no doubt... I would enjoy bleeding him. I became somewhat anxious concerning the arrival of the tranquilizers, as well as fretting over the structural integrity of the dining room chairs. My next visit to the library netted me a bundle of pages photocopied from books on knot tying. A moment of fear coursed over me, thinking of my father finding the tranquilizers and photocopies. I could imagine him integrating them into his sick sex fantasies, with me being drugged, tied up, and raped, gang- banged, fucked by a dog... whatever. Who knows how deep his sickness went? On the first day of the week that my mother usually went on her errands, there was a ring of the doorbell. I answered. My father mandated that I keep up an attractive appearance. I saw the appreciation the deliveryman had for my body when he first caught sight of me. He was probably early twenties, most likely a college student working part time for tuition money. He was cute, and my heart sped up for a moment. We exchanged pleasantries, and I signed for a package addressed to 'Michael'... my old name. He sped off after a quick glance back. I mused about a relationship with such a boy, realizing the futility of such thoughts. My 'plumbing' was wrong, and my father would not stand for me to be in a relationship. My sister had had to pay her way out of sexual slavery by offering me up. And still, her treatment at his hands had warped her (now him)... probably beyond repair. I remember her being happy as a girl. I don't think she went through gender change to make herself happy, but for power. She couldn't stand the lack of power that came with being a woman. She couldn't stand being the victim anymore, and saw sex change as the way to fix it. I felt a wave of pity for her. Yes, there were still years of anger. But I thought for a moment that I understood the weakness that drove her decision. The law should have prevented all this from happening in the first place, but the law can't control what the law doesn't know. And the one person who should have had the guts to stand up to my father and call attention to his atrocities had not done so. My mother sat silently by while her daughter was raped, then her son forcibly turned into a she-male, and raped as well. Then there was me... and my brother. Neither of us had gone to the police either. I don't know why my 'brother' hadn't. Fear, I suppose. And I hadn't gone out of fear of my father somehow slipping through the system unscathed, and seeking his retribution on me. I also hadn't gone out of the sheer humiliation of my situation. It was a fine trap, really, that my father had designed. I don't know if it had been so much conscious as just the way things had fallen. Certainly, I remembered back to a piece of conversation I'd heard between my then-sister, and my parents. They had all conspired to do this to me. So, it was not entirely accident and perhaps not accident at all. For the slightest moment, something popped into my mind. My mother, my brother and I had not called this to an end before, probably out of fear. My father had made us monsters, as he was. But... who had made HIM into a monster? I wondered if his father, or some uncle had raped him, abused HIM as a child. My resolve faltered for a moment. Was he any more to blame for his situation than any of the rest of us? The doubt held for just a moment. Then, the fury returned, and the understanding. It did not matter where he learned to behave this way. It was wrong, and he KNEW somewhere deep inside how very wrong it was, and that his actions had consequences on the lives he affected. I knew, and I was not even half his age. He had to know what he was doing was wrong. Either that, or he was a sociopath. Either way, his crimes needed to be punished. Yes, I could call the police, but that might not leave him punished sufficiently, if at all. My father was a successful businessman and had wealthy friends. The truth was that law did not apply equally to the rich as to the poor. No, I could not leave it to the courts to decide. I KNEW the truth of his crime, and I was willing to take the punishment for handing down my own verdict. ... The dinner was an exceptional work, two days in constructing. Finding the right combinations of flavor to mask the maximum amount of tranquilizers was the key. I settled on Italian, a nice lasagna with a slightly spicy sizitsa diced inside. Garlic bread, made with real fresh crushed garlic on an oregano bread. And, of course, red wine. All these flavors masked the slight biter bite of the powdered drug. I also included a simple salad of tossed greens. It couldn't hold the drugs, but balanced the meal as far as flavor, texture, and nutrition. Yeah... I would make someone a great wife one-day... if I didn't go to the electric chair after tonight. I also baked two separate lasagnas. A large one, laced with drugs, and a small one. I wanted to really enjoy this meal, and felt that I should relish the taste of it along with the rest of my loving family, before I called game-over. And in short order, the family assembled. Andy (who used to be my dear sister Angela), and his loving wife Mary arrived. Mom and Mary, as was the standards of the house, bothered me to assist. As I'd constructed the meat sauces, and laced the Garlic butter and wine, I acted more than happy to accept their assistance. Mother went into the dining room to see that the table was set. In her absence, I turned to Mary. "Mary, are you happy?" I asked her sincerely. "Oh, yes," she chimed, not thinking about it, not looking at me. I gently took her by the elbow and turned her to face me. "Are you really?" I persisted. I saw her eyes dart. I'd gotten her to think. Her answer to me now could not be so rote. "...I'm well provided for, and feel very safe with Andy..." she said. She told the truth... a shred of it anyway, but she was being far from completely honest. I forced a smile and hugged her. I judged her as innocent. I would spare her. The meal was finally ready, and my loving family gathered at the table for the last time. I smiled and positively danced around the table in my role of faithful servant. When something was wanted by anyone, I wound spring up and see to their needs. My father and Andy talked about some sports issue, a trading deal of hockey-players, I think. My mother and Mary babbled senselessly about some article in Cosmo. It was so sickeningly Norman Rockwell in its cliche that I wanted to scream... but I didn't, I smiled, and lightly continued my work of humble servitude. My father and Andy both had two large portions of the lasagna, as well as bread, and several glasses of wine. On one of my trips for food, I swept downstairs into the basement for the 200 foot bundle of clothesline. I set it on the counter, beside several knives. My heart began to... lift? There was an odd sense of euphoric relief, and the most pleasant and serene calm came over me. The ladies had eaten less, obviously, and I had suspected this to be the case. I had taken the drug level to a point where they would get a sufficient dose from a delicate 'ladies' portion'. This worked out well in all but one case. Andy, while muscular, still wasn't very massive. I was afraid he might OD. I was willing to risk it. Because of this, he was also the first to show serious signs. He lolled in his chair, and conversation dropped nearly to a halt. Our father finally broke the silence. "Damn, son... you don't handle your vino very well..." he said, slightly slurred, gulping another mouthful of the red wine himself, to punctuate his ability to drink. "It's just all this heavy food. It always makes people sleepy." Mary said. "I know, why don't I tie him in the chair, so he doesn't fall out," I said, trying to make it sound like a good fun joke. Our father snorted at this, which I took as a sign to proceed. I produced the rope with startling speed. Had the family not been so heavily sedated, they might have noticed. As it was, while Mary's eyes were open, they didn't seem well focused. Mother was also slouching in her chair, smiling placidly. I used some twenty feet to bind Andy to the chair. By this time, my father had his head on the table, nearly choking with laughter. Mary was next. She, as expected, offered no resistance, but simply smiled pleasantly at me. I smiled back at her, and kissed her softly on the forehead. I had no right to go farther that this with punishing her. Mother was almost asleep. She was tied in a matter of minutes, leaving only daddy. I still had almost a hundred feet of rope reserved for my dear loving father. I started with his legs, secured at the ankles, and just below the knees. He lifted his head slightly. I had to stop briefly, to ensure Andy wasn't choking to death on his tongue. I smiled for a moment. He might really die of drug overdose. I had a wash of conflicting emotions, but it passed. Now, back to the business at hand. Daddy. I bound him at the waist. He lifted his head briefly from the table, where it rested peacefully in the remainder of his entree. I gently sat him up straight, binding his arms and shoulders to the back of the chair. Finally, I tied his wrists to the arm of the chair, and his forearm just below the elbow to the arm as well. It was more than an hour's worth of work to gag them all and get the plastic painting tarp under all the chairs, then to drag Mary's chair into the living room. I stopped briefly for a glass of water, and then cleaned up after dinner, feeding the remains of the large lasagna into the garbage disposal. I put the other lasagna away in the fridge, gathered my things, and sat at my chair at the table to wait. Mother came around first. I waited to make sure she was focusing on me before I spoke to her. "Well, wakey, wakey, sleepy-head! Do you know what today is?" I asked in a pleasant tone. She moved her head subtly from side to side. "Today is the day I take my life BACK!" I shouted the last word. Her head jerked away in fright. "Today is the day I finish this fucking dysfunctional circus, and behead the monster. Today is the day I pass my judgment on him, on Andy... and on you." I pointed a long kitchen knife at her. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. She struggled to speak through the gag. I didn't care. I didn't want to hear the excuses. "Mother, listen to me. Somewhere in me is the tiniest spark of pity for you, so I am going to make you an offer. I can finish you with this knife, or you can drink that glass of wine in front of you. It has enough drugs in it that if it doesn't kill you, it'll likely put you in a vegetative coma for the rest of your life. Andy might be there already," I said calmly. With the last statement, I heard a whimpering cry from the next room. Mary was awake. I'm sorry she had to bear this. Mother looked deeply into my eyes. There was no shred of humor, no hint of relenting. She nodded her head toward the wine glass. I nodded in acknowledgement. I removed the gag, and moved the knife toward her throat. "If you scream, it will not be the wine that kills you," I told her. "Why... Why are you doing this?" she pleaded. I lifted the glass to her lips. "Please... just answer me first..." she refused to drink, looking into my eyes. The furnace of hatred and anger was burning full tilt, but it was inside, and what I showed to those around me was something very different. "You have to ask... seriously? Oh, gee mom... I don't know. It must be the rock music and Dungeons and Dragons! For GODS'S SAKE, you stupid fucking BITCH!!! Do you THINK it could have anything to do with you conspiring to make me into THIS... and let my father rape me?" I reached to the center of the table, where a spiral bound notebook lay. I showed her a page of hash marks, groups of four vertical, the fifth crossing through the group of four. The page had over a hundred and fifty such groupings. My mother sat silently racking sobs. "Do you know what this is? It's a tally... It's a count of every time my father stuck his dick up my ass. It's a count of the few teaspoons of blood I shed each time. It's a count of my humiliation," I spoke each syllable clearly, enunciating it with harsh precision. I didn't want her to have any doubt in her mind as to what I was saying. "It is a count of every time you LET him do this to me. And... hey... this didn't even include all the times he fucked Angela... and you LET HIM! You are not guilty of doing anything. You are guilty of doing NOTHING, when you should have," I was trembling. I inhaled and exhaled, relaxing. "Now, the wine or the knife." I offered softly. "The wine," she conceded, apparently accepting her fate. I made sure she drank it all. Once the deed was done, I replaced the gag. "Somewhere in me, I still love you, mom. But this shit has gone on long enough. Someone has to stop this," I told her. I watched her eyes, looking at me, then fighting to stay focused. Finally, the eyelids slide shut. Goodnight mother... rest in peace. I returned my attentions on Andy. He was snoring, so at least he was still alive. "Please... don't kill him." I heard from the living room. I walked over to where I'd dragged Mary's chair. She'd worked the gag out of her mouth. I moved to replace it. "No... please, listen," she began. I paused and looked in her eyes, the eyes of the jock that had looked at me with such disdain when I was beginning my transformation. The eyes of the person that had shied away from me like a leper, perhaps afraid I might somehow infect his unwavering masculinity. "Mary, listen... you and I are in the same boat. We were both made into what we are against our will. We have both become the property of masters. Perhaps the difference is that some small thing inside me, some spark of my former self remained. He did not ask for this. I did not ask for this. And I find it hard to believe that YOU asked for this. You were bent, slowly, through humiliation and degradation, through milkshakes laced with female hormones. These people... my family... they destroyed your identity. And still, you want me to show mercy?" I asked her softly. There was a pause. "Yes..." she finally whispered. "Why? Why should I?" I asked, a little more heated. I'd noticed some time ago that I'd stopped using my high feminine range, and slid into the deep masculine range which had lain dormant for seven years. It was like talking through a throat full of razorblades. It made me feel alive. "Because I know Andy, and I love him anyway. He didn't ask to become what he is. Like you, he was made that way by your father. You don't..." She snapped her mouth shut. She was about to say, 'You don't know what it's like to be raped by him, night after night.' I smiled, I knew. I pondered for a moment if I would have turned over someone else to fill my position in this sick game, given the choice. I could not bear the thought of putting anyone through what I'd been through. "He conspired with my parents to do this to me. In his stead, he offered me up. He traded my life for his freedom. How very noble! He had his turn raping me as well. Did you know that?" I said, back to my icy tone. "You're lying," she spat. "No. No lies from me. Not after this last supper. Tonight, we enumerate and pay for our sins, Mary. Before she had the bottom surgery, she brought me upstairs, put me in this slutty little outfit, and fucked me. She was bitter and hateful. It was not an act of love, trust me. She was infected with whatever daddy has," I paused. "Did you ever read 'To Kill a Mockingbird'? There was a very touching scene where Attacus Finch is forced to shoot a rabid dog. It brings him to tears, having to do it, but he does it anyway, because he has to... because if he lets it live, it could infect other animals with its bite, and because the dog is dying a slow, painful death anyway. I am most likely going to the electric chair after I clean up this fucked-up excuse of a family, and if there's a Hell, I'm probably going there afterward, but tonight, I am shooting the rabid dog." I looked her in the eye. She sat silently, not struggling against the bonds... passively accepting her place. That passive acceptance sickened me. I moved across the living room and put the CD, with 'Mix' scrawled in permanent marker, into the stereo. I picked up the remote and moved back into the dining room. Daddy was stirring. Before he awakened, there was something I had to ensure. I rushed into the kitchen, opening the drawer with all the miscellany, and withdrew a hand full of heavy rubber bands. I hurried back to his chair, opened his fly, and worked his masculine parts out. With quick movements, I wrapped the rubber bands around his scrotum and penis, until they were turning purple from the constriction. I smiled. If he lived through this evening... at least a part of him wouldn't. I walked back into the kitchen, and retrieved the meat scissors. With a precise cut, I lopped off the tool of the monster... penis, testicles, scrotum, the whole bloody mess. My hands were warm with his blood. He groaned in his semi-conscious state. I wanted to rush to throw them down the garbage disposal, but more than that, I wanted him to SEE them first. The pain was bringing him to. I watched the slow puddle of blood in the chair spread. Because of the rubber bands, he was in no fear of bleeding to death. His eyes fluttered. "Wha..." he mumbled through the gag. I slapped his face as hard as I could. His angry eyes focused and found me, burning. "Do you know what this is?" I asked harshly, holding up his severed reproductive organs. He began swearing unintelligibly into the gag. I turned slowly and walked into the kitchen. I switched on the garbage disposal and crammed his rapist tools into the whirling blades, washing it all down the drain, and returned. "Oh, daddy, the more you struggle, the more unpleasant those knots will become. Do yourself a favor and sit still. This won't hurt... for much longer." I bared my teeth, and my heart lifted. It was almost over. The night's dark business was nearly complete. I paused, and looked over at Andy. Somewhere inside that severely fucked-up trans-man was my sweet sister, Angela. I doubted enough of her could be drawn out again. She had my dad's rabies, now. I had to put her down. My father's eyes were on me when I came to my brother, at his right side. I kissed Andy's cheek, and brushed my fingers through his hair. I took the long kitchen knife from the table and slid it in between his ribs, twisting slightly. The blood flowed out faster than I could have imagined. "I love you, Angela," I said, as my voice tightened. I turned back on dear loving daddy. I saw it in his eyes now. Fear. For the first time in my life, I was in charge in an encounter between us. And for the last time. "I have a song I'd like to sing for you, father," I told him. In our household, it was understood that the son calls the father 'dad', and the daughter calls the father 'daddy'. No one ever called him 'father'. I used it intentionally. I reached up with the remote and skipped the CD ahead to the track, hit 'repeat', and cranked the volume up. The stereo would handle enough power to make the house rumble. All the better. Let the fucking heavens shake with my wrath. "Can you feel it?" the voice came from the stereo, followed by the animal screech and the lead singer screamed into the microphone. The rhythm built and I knelt before my father, with my head between his legs. "Drowning deep in my sea of loathing, broken your servant I kneel," the lyrics began. I soundlessly mouthed the words. It seems what's left of my human side is slowly changing in me... I stood, rising above him, raising the blade, already stained in blood. Looking at my own reflection, when suddenly it changes, violently it changes. I punctuated the word 'violently' by stabbing the blade deep into the flesh of his thigh. There is no turning back now. You've woken up the demon in me. I scream along with the words. And as it breaks into the chorus, I become a whirlwind of action. Get up, come on get down with the sickness. Get up, come on get down with the sickness. Get up, come on get down with the sickness. Open up your hate, and let it flow into me. Get up, come on get down with the sickness. You mother get up, come on get down with the sickness. You fucker get up, come on get down with the sickness. Madness is the gift, that has been given to me! By the end of the chorus, there was an entire set of eight steak knives stuck in my father's body. Feet, Hands, shins, forearms. Nothing vital... not yet. The lyrics resumed, and I panted against the exertion. I can see inside you, the sickness is rising. Don't try to deny what you feel. It seems that all that was good has died, and is decaying in me. I again mouthed the words, as my father shuddered in pain. I was momentarily disappointed that he was not impressed with my performance art. The thought brought another wide grin. It seems you're having some trouble in dealing with these changes, living with these changes. The world is a scary place now that you've woken up the demon in me!" As the chorus started again, I whipped the big kitchen knife, using the point like a paintbrush against the canvas of flesh that was my father. I opened up the floodgate into hell. I did not simply open a valve; I blew apart the levy holding my rage in check. I can not clearly remember, in thinking back, how much conscious thought there was at that point. I only know I performed more horrific acts on the physical form of my father than I realized I knew. I was broken out of my blood-fury by the doorbell... barely audible over the music. With a hand soaked in blood, I reached for the remote, and turned off the music. I blinked. I felt something, but couldn't describe it. Certainly, I was physically spent. But my emotions seemed to be either shut off, or so many were conflicting for acknowledgement, that none was coming across clearly. I walked past Mary in the living room. She looked at me like she expected me to turn on her any moment. I guess I didn't blame her. I had just murdered three people. I stepped into the little foyer and opened the door. Our neighbor stood there smiling, until he got a good look at me, spattered in blood. "Oh my God... What happened?" he asked, looking shocked and nearly ill. "Well... You know Andy and Mary, right? They came over for dinner, and I murdered Andy, and my mom and dad. I think maybe you should call the police, now," I said in a tone that sounded wrong to me. No inflection, no emotion... certainly not the cheery sound I would have expected. "Here, let me have that..." he motioned for the knife still grasped in my hand. I turned and thrust it into the wall beside me. "You probably don't want to touch it. It's the murder weapon... one of them... actually." I tried to explain. He reached to his belt and retrieved his cell phone, hitting a speed dial button. I turned back into the house, leaving the door wide open. He stepped just into the foyer, staring into the living room. Mary sat there, looking into his eyes. I returned to the living room with a small knife from the kitchen. Our neighbor, Laurence... I think was his name... looked at me with pleading eyes. He thought... he thought I was... How DARE he! Mary watched as I knelt beside her. I cut the ropes holding her legs to the chair. "I want you to go outside with my neighbor here. He's a good guy, and you can trust him. Stay with him until the police arrive, okay?" For some odd reason, I didn't think she would leave until I gave her permission to. I cut the rest of her bonds, and told her to get going. She had the look of a creature raised in captivity newly released into the wild. I pitied her. I might have just wrecked her life. I was still willing to pay for my crime. I spent the next five minutes trying to wash all the blood from me. It wasn't easy. That stuff got everywhere. Three times, I walked through the dining room. Mother, all blue from suffocation, or her heart stopping, or whatever. And my father and sibling all covered in red. Dad looked really bad. I mean... I couldn't really tell it was dad, except that I knew it was. Angela looked asleep, but with the front of her clothing soaked in blood. I was pulling on a fresh blouse when I saw the blue and red blinking lights through the bedroom windows. My God, those guys took their sweet time in getting here. I could hear the footsteps of their shoes on the hardwood floor of the foyer. "I'm upstairs. I'm coming down. I'm unarmed. Shoot me if you feel like it," I said. I meant the last part. The officers stood in stunned silence as I came down. Their pistols tracked me the whole way. I held a white kitchen garbage bag with all my bloodied clothes in them. I presented them to the officer nearest me. He took the bag hesitantly, and peaked inside. I think he expected to find a head or something. "Just the clothes I was wearing. I didn't want to mess up your evidence, and didn't want to get blood all over your car," I was saying. I had the distinct feeling that someone else was controlling me. I felt like I'd drifted off... out of body. I could almost see the scene from an overhead view. "If you'd be so kind as to read me my rights, so I can make a confession, we'll get this moving right along," I said, forcing a minute smile, that died away to the weary blank expression I'd wear for a long time to come. They led me away toward the cruiser. I sort of remember them reading me my rights. "Could you make sure someone looks after Mary?" I asked as they ducked my head into the cruiser. END I struggled with whether or not I should post this story at all, but I think it makes a valid counterpoint to so many tales I read of submission. This tale is in response specifically to 'My Sister' by Anon Writer, and more generally to that KIND of story. It is the all-too-often ignored breaking point in the human psyche that I wanted to explore. A British author (I assume) wrote the original story. I have taken the liberty to transport my part of the tale into an American setting, because it's what I know. I think that I should also say that I am not attempting to critique the original story with my tale. It was a good story, but this is where my mind went when I finished reading 'My Sister'. This is very much in the vein of Edgar Allen Poe's 'Hopfrog', or 'The Cask of Amonillado'. It is strictly a tale of vengeance, but unlike Poe's, Michelle does not seek to get away with her crime. She is willing to face the consequences. I'm sorry if the subject matter disturbs you. It is intended to. I do not believe that every tale should end with happiness, or necessarily even hope. With that said... I hope you enjoyed my dark little tale. In closing, it may do you some service if you can actually listen to the song 'Down with the Sickness', by Disturbed. It is a song nearly unmatched in its raw fury and acts as the soundtrack to this story. If you guys in Disturbed somehow read this story, please don't sue me, I have no money, and only used your song because it utterly and completely kicks ass.