As I walked out of prison, the officer clapped me on the shoulder. “Go on, kid. Go out there and live a good life.” Outside the gates, my parents were waiting with a bouquet of flowers and a box of my favorite pastries. I ran into their arms. My mother wiped away a tear, her eyes filled with pain. “Oh, my girl. You’ve suffered so much.” One week later, at my birthday party, I took an axe and chopped off my father’s head. Then I hacked off my mother’s limbs. Finally, I pressed a towel over the face of my little brother, the one I had doted on for nine years, and held him in my arms until he suffocated. When it was all done, I washed the blood from my hands. Then I called the officer who had released me. “Sorry to trouble you, but you’ll have to come and get me again.” 1 I put down the phone and sat quietly on the sofa, taking a deep breath of the metallic air. There was so much blood. It was still seeping from my parents’ bodies. My little brother, on the other hand, had gone peacefully. His face was still, expressionless. I dragged my father’s head over and set it in front of me. The agony on his face was plain to see. I looked at it, and a laugh escaped my lips. Compared to my father, my mother’s face was a mask of pure terror when she died. Thinking of it, I glanced down at my pants. They were stained with the marks of her struggle. As I was reveling in the brutal aftermath of my own creation, the door burst open. The young officers who entered gasped in horror. But the older one, Detective Miles, just stared at me, his face a storm of fury. “You… why would you do this?” The floor was a sea of blood; they had nowhere to step. The commotion brought our neighbors poking their heads out of their doors. I smiled at Detective Miles. “Sir, you’re finally here.” I held out my hands. “I’ve killed them. You can take me in now.” The moment the words left my mouth, two officers slammed me to the ground. My face pressed against the sticky, bloody floor. The smell was so thick it made me want to gag. Then, the cold, familiar touch of handcuffs on my wrists. Detective Miles’s eyes were filled with a deep, sorrowful disbelief. “Why?” he asked, his voice raw. “Why would you do this? They were your parents!” His voice cracked, and tears welled in his eyes. He looked at me with overwhelming disappointment. “I was wrong about you. I was so wrong.” “Someone like you… you don’t deserve any sympathy.” “Take her away!” I was hauled out the door as a team of forensics experts swarmed the apartment. “Abby, you killed them?” my next-door neighbor asked, her eyes wide with terror, as if I were some kind of wild animal. I smiled at her. “All three of them. Mom, Dad, and my little brother.” Her face went white. The other onlookers in the hallway heard me, and whispers erupted. “She’s a psycho! She killed her whole family!” “That girl is sick in the head.” “Yeah, I heard her mom say she was in prison. She just got out a few days ago.” “God, what a tragedy for that family.” Detective Miles, following behind me, waved his hand in frustration. “Everyone, back in your homes. You’ll be questioned later. What are you looking at? This isn't a marketplace; it’s a crime scene!” I was back in a familiar place. In the interrogation room, Detective Miles no longer looked at me with any kindness. The last time I was here was six months ago. I remembered him clearly. He had put a hand on my shoulder and said, “You’re a brave kid. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t stay in there for long.” He had kept his word. I was out in just six months. He probably never imagined that the person he worked so hard to free would be brought back in by his own hand. “Abigail Wu,” he began, his voice hard. “Tell me. Why did you kill them?” He slammed his hand on the table, and for a second, I thought it would splinter. “They were your parents! Your own flesh and blood!” “And your brother… he was so young! How could you do it?” His voice choked up at the end. I just shook my head, showing no remorse. “Because they all deserved to die.” “My brother… he should never have been born.” My words enraged every officer in the room. Detective Miles swore under his breath. “What the hell are you talking about?” he roared. “Your parents were so good to you! How could you be so cruel?” “Do you even have a shred of humanity?” He leaned across the table, his face just inches from mine, his spittle hitting my cheek as he yelled. Another officer tried to intervene. “Miles, maybe you should take a break. Let someone else handle this.” He shoved the officer’s hand away, his eyes locked on mine. “No. I’m interrogating her myself.” He sat back down, and I could hear the tremor in his voice. “Tell me what happened today.” I smiled and began to speak slowly. “Today was my birthday. My parents were so happy. They cooked so much food. And my brother… he gave me a gift he made himself. I was so touched.” 2 In the week after my release, my family had been incredibly kind. My mom showered me with food and gifts. My dad promised to buy me a house as a “welcome home” present. Even my usually bratty little brother was sweet, hugging me and saying, “I missed you so much, sis.” They deferred to me on everything, even asking me how I wanted to celebrate my birthday. “Abby, do you want to go out with friends or celebrate at home with us?” I was so happy to feel valued again. “Of course, I want to be at home with you guys.” My dad declared a company-wide holiday. “I’m staying home to celebrate my daughter’s birthday!” Mom was in the kitchen, my brother was studying in his room. We were a happy family. “Mom, let me cook the fish today,” I offered. She beamed, her eyes crinkling. “My Abby is all grown up now!” I took the apron from her and started cooking. I used to love cooking before… before I went away. After my return, everyone had unspokenly avoided the topic, afraid of reopening old wounds. My mom took out her phone, documenting the moment. “Look at our Abby, such a good cook.” I playfully covered my face. “Mom, are you posting this on Facebook again?” She pulled my hand away, her voice full of pride. “Of course! I have to show off my amazing daughter.” In her eyes, no matter how badly I did in school, I was always her greatest source of pride. “You’re not worried people will laugh?” I teased. Before she could reply, my dad came home. “Who’s talking about my daughter?” he boomed, patting his belly. “My girl is brilliant! I’d like to see anyone dare say otherwise.” My brother ran out, shouting, “My sister is the best sister in the world!” At the dinner table, my dad pulled out a deed to a house. “Abby, I’m getting old. This house… it’s for your security.” He handed it to me. My mom then produced an exquisite jade bracelet and slipped it onto my wrist. I hugged them both, tears of gratitude streaming down my face. Not to be outdone, my brother presented his handmade gift. “Sis! Me too! I don’t have money, but I made this myself!” He shot a glare at my dad. “It’s all their fault for not giving me an allowance! Otherwise, I could have bought you something nice!” My dad put on a stern face. “Tough love for boys, spoils for girls! You study hard! One day, you’ll have to take care of your sister.” During dinner, I pointed to the Szechuan fish. “I made that.” The three of them eagerly dug in. “My daughter’s cooking is the best!” “I’m such a lucky man. My daughter is so wonderful.” After dinner, just as my mom was about to get me a napkin, she collapsed. My dad panicked, but a moment later, he too fell unconscious. My little brother was already slumped over the table, unresponsive. I called their names. When there was no answer, I went straight to the balcony and got the axe. 3 The sharp pain woke my father. He begged me to stop, but I felt no mercy. I brought the axe down again and again. My mother was jolted awake by her own agony. She tried to scream, but I muffled her mouth. At one point, our neighbor heard the noise and knocked on the door. I made up a quick excuse and sent them away. When it came to my brother, I didn't hesitate. But I did feel a flicker of pity. I didn't use the axe. I chose a gentler way for him to leave this world. When I was done, I was drenched in sweat. I ripped up the deed my father had given me and flushed it down the toilet. The jade bracelet from my mother had shattered when I was moving her body and hit it against a table. The handmade letter from my brother? I stuffed it in his mouth. Even the flowers my parents had brought me on my release day were spattered with blood. For a moment, all I could see was red. When I finished my story, I was shaking with laughter. Detective Miles was speechless. His lips trembled. “Why?” he finally managed. “Why would you do it? Abigail, why?” My smile vanished. I scoffed. “Because they all deserved to die.” Growing up, I was spoiled rotten, a princess in a candy-coated castle. I had more dresses than any other girl had pants. I had three closets in our house, and two walk-in closets in our villa we barely used. Still, my mother always thought I needed more clothes. They always told me, “Grades don’t matter. Your happiness is what’s important.” Because of that, I could be last in my class and never get scolded. My dad would even encourage me to play longer with my friends. “We have money. You can do whatever you want.” I tried countless hobbies and quit them all. I couldn't handle hardship, and my parents couldn't bear to see me suffer. My childhood was a blur of fun and games. Until my brother was born. Then, my mother changed. She wouldn’t let me near him, saying I would hurt him. I didn't understand. "He's my brother, my family. Why would I hurt him?" I would cry. She never explained. My dad would pull me aside and tell me, "Your mom is sick. Postpartum depression. She'll get better." He said she was just being overprotective. I believed him. To help her "get better," I doted on my brother, spending all my allowance and savings on toys for him. And it worked. Seeing how much I loved him, my mother’s “illness” seemed to fade. But they were different with him. They were strict. If his grades were bad, he was punished. If he was too rowdy, he was punished. He would often complain that they were playing favorites. My dad would hit him again and say, "You want to be compared to your sister? She's our sweet girl. You're just a leather jacket, nothing but trouble." My mom and I would often have to step in when it got too rough. Detective Miles listened to all this, then fell silent. "So, just because of that, you killed them?" I shook my head. "Of course not." He seemed to understand something. "You hate them for sending you to prison?"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "393399", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel