Sugar-free Cut

~ Sugar-free Cut ~

My name's Susan Bones, I'm from England. Birmingham, England. It was the summer of 1995 on Maddoz Avenue and I had no place to go.

My parents fought a lot, most of the time they fought to the point of injury. Mum would end up with a black eye. Dad would end up with a fat lip. I don't remember when they started fighting. At the beginning of summer, I think.

They were fighting in the lounge. I knew they'd stop sooner or later, but it's been a few hours.

I was sitting up in my room doing summer homework for Potions class. I went to boarding school during most of the year, but during the summer and the holidays, I came home. It was like that every year since secondary school started and I was shipped off to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was made Prefect there during my fifth year and throughout last year. I knew my parents were proud of me. And usually, I loved coming home, but now that I'm home and my parents are fighting, I wish I could have stayed at school this summer. Although, it's against the rules to do that.

My mother was screaming in the kitchen. I stood up and walked over to my school bag full of summer homework, grimacing as I heard a crash of dishes and pans in the kitchen. This fight had to be the worse yet.

I took out all of my complete homework and looked it over again. I did almost anything to kill time. My parents had to stop fighting soon - I needed a drink and I didn't want to go into the kitchen because I would, more likely than not, get involved. I didn't want to get involved with their fights. They could be horrid at times.

I looked over my homework. I completed it all. Damn.

Well, there went my plan of doing homework. I should have gotten extra credit. How would I know that I needed extra credit? Usually I would be too busy for it, but now that my parents are fighting, I couldn't really go anywhere. I had nowhere to go at the moment.

The yelling started to pause every once and a while downstairs. Now, maybe it would be safe to go get a drink. I still didn't know if it was safe enough though. I didn't want to interrupt them or anything. The yelling seamed to be coming from the laundry room...

Good, that was well enough away from the kitchen. Maybe if I just snuck in there and hurried to get a quick glass of water, they wouldn't notice. I hope they wouldn't notice -- I certainly didn't want to get involved at all. I hated it when they fought. I hated it to death.

Walking out of my room and past the bathroom, I carefully walked down stair by stair, as quietly as I could without making one sound. My parents burst out of the laundry room, making me trip and tumble down the rest of the stairs.

Oh, dear, that hurt like hell! Not too bad because I landed on the carpet, but it still hurt.

I stood up and brushed myself off, picking up my empty glass that landed next to me. I paused realizing that I didn't see where they went. Were they in the lounge? I thought they were. I didn't know for sure.

Didn't they even notice me falling down the stairs? Maybe they didn't. I kind of hope they didn't, but if they did, they didn't seem too worried about it.

I had a feeling they were in the lounge, I could hear them yelling at each other worse than ever. My mother sounded as if her vocal chords were about to rip out of her throat. I never listened to their fights for some reason. They were always over something frivolous, sometimes may dad would never take out the trash, or my mum forgot to remind him and my dad would get angry and she would yell at him because he shouldn't have to be reminded. Most of the time their fights were like that.

I hated the day after day fighting. They needed to get a divorce -- it would solve their problems a lot faster than fighting would. My Psychology book I read said that a relationship was better split than violent. Basically, it was describing what my parents should do without knowing that he did.

I honestly thought that they should get a divorce and I'm their kid. Parents should know that they have problems when their own kid wants them to get a divorce.

I almost walked into the kitchen, and then I realized that they were in there, and stood at the door being as silent as I could. I watched from that place in fright. My heartbeat accelerated when I comprehended what was happening.

My mother was on the other side of the kitchen, holding a knife! The sharp butchering knife that we used on the things that were too tough to cut with a regular knife. Dad kept trying to persuade her to put the knife down, but mum wouldn't.

She refused to.

In an instant she pulled her husband forward and in one swift motion, and drew the knife across his throat. He choked and yelled, at the same time gasping for air...

I was in shock; I was too shocked to cry! I was too shocked to do anything. My mother had just killed my father!

I gulped as my mother started to cry. She realized what she did and dropped down to her knees to inspect my father's body.

He was dead. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. He wasn't doing anything.

"Why?" my mother asked, looking up at the ceiling. "Why did you make me do this?"

She lifted the bloody knife and looked at it. The blood shone in the kitchen lights, I saw the reflection of it in my mother's glasses as she looked at it with the strangest look on her face.

I stood still at the door, my eyes as wide as saucers, every breath getting heavier. I was almost panting. Sweat ran down my face while I watched her. I couldn't even force myself to move. I physically couldn't move an inch.

I saw it. I was a witness. She lifted the knife and smoothly ran it across her throat. She gasped, she spit blood, her eyes rolled into the back of her head and I just stood at the door.

I knew I should have done something -- I knew I had to! I had to do something! Her dead body landed on top of my father's. It was too late. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't see straight. I wanted to pass out. I wanted to die too.

Oh, please kill me! I can't live. They're dead!

Why didn't they take me?

All I could do was stare, frozen in place.

I couldn't move, the feeling of shock planted me into the floor, and in those two minutes that I stood in the ajar kitchen door, I watched as I was orphaned. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill something.

Oh, how I wanted to die.

~