The sound of shadering glass wakes me up from my well deserved sleep. I don't stop to ask myself what is going on. Instead, I put on some jeans and a hoodie and rush downstairs. Nothing new, I know what happened, it's the same old story.

Without a word, I place myself between my mother and her so-called boyfriend. His eyes are black of anger, but I can see he's high. Nothing new here either.
From the corner of my eye I see some blooddrops on the floor, behind me the sound of something dripping. A diguisting sound. I don't have to turn around to see the damage. The fact that there is damage is enough. The blood is proof.

I can't even remember the last time I woke up by myself. Without the yelling, the sound of doors almost knocking out walls, shattering glass.

The adrenaline is pulsing through my veins, and eventhough the man in front of me is almost three heads taller than me, I don't fear him.
He fears me.

There are little drops of blood on his trembbling hands, which gives fuel to the fire that is growing inside me. I've had four hours of sleep every night for weeks now, and I'm tired of always being on edge. Afraid that if I sleep to deeply I won't hear it when the man in front of me will slit my mothers throat.

Hate is a big word, but this man has learned me what pure hate does to a girl like me. I've never hated someone until I saw what he did to my mother; the bruises, the cuts, the broken bones. And yet I despise my mother for staying with him on the exact same way. Why is she staying with him, when all he does is all but killing her?

There have been nights when I spent the houres writing down what way I could kill him, to make sure I woudn't fall asleep too early. It's always worse at night, the fighting. I imagined how I would put poison in his food, making sure he'd still be consious when he'd choke in his own blood. Or giving him some cyanide through his coke. But that would be too easy, he woudn't have enough time to realise what was happening.

I want him to suffer, to die slowly. And most importantly, I want to see him die. I wanna look him right in the eye as he takes his last breath. Becaue with him, all the things that have hurt me and my family, would die as well.

He tries to stare me down. I can see his breathing grow faster, as he begins to feel the urge to hit me hard enough to knock me out. But he IS afraid of me. A little girl with no physical strength at all. If anyone ever wondered whether looks could kill, no, they can't. But they can make people fear you more than anything else in the world, as long as you put all your hate in that look.
I'm a pro at giving the man who beats my mother 'the Deathstare'.

Do you know what else I'm not afraid of, next to his obvious bigger physical strength? To kill the man with my own hands. Not with poison or some deathtrap. I would be able to actually slit his throat, since I'm not strong enough to strangle him. What am I saying, as much as I hate him, I'd love to slit his throat. I'm not a big fan of blood, especially not on our livingroom floor, but what I woudn't give to see his blood all over the room, against the walls, ruining our furniture.

And then he breaks, hits me right in my face and I feel my lip bursting. Little spatters of blood against the snow white wall, and I smile.

Never, in all those years, did he ever dare to even put a finger on me. He knew better. And day after day, as I woke up and hurried downstairs to make sure he woudn't kill my mother, with a knife tucked away in the back of my jeans, I wished he'd hit me just once. That's all it takes for me to pull my knife and..

He takes a step back, which gives my mother enough room to put herself between us, she never saw my knife. She throws herself to her knees and begs him to hit her, instead of me. Now I see where the blood on the floor came from in the first place; she slit her own wrist and is slowely bleeding to death. Blood is everywhere now, on the walls, the floor, the ceiling. But he keeps staring at me, my smile. I haven't smiled in what seems like decades. I see the fear growing, taking away the anger.

My mother is still screaming, begging, crying. Through her clouded eyes she can not see the fear on her boyfriends face. I start laughing.

I'm so tired. Tired of all those nights with hardly any sleep. Of him breaking down and hurting my mother. Of my mother, who still loves the man who made her slit her own wrist. Of myself, for letting it get to this point.

The knife feels heavy in my palm, as if I'm holding my entire future right there, in my hand. And maybe I am..

When he sees the knife, the anger returns.
"Who do you think you are!" he screams, and starts walking towards me.
I just smile, look him right in the eye. The blood from my lip is dripping on my shirt, on the floor, making the scene just a little bit more diguisting. Soon, his blood will be up against the ceiling and the walls, making little oceans of freedom on the floor. I will slit his throat, so he can no longer scream at my mother, and cut of his hands, so he'll never hurt anyone ever again. And I will be free.

My mother thinks she finally got his attention, puts her arms over her head so he won't hit her in her face. But he doesn't even seem to realise there is a crying woman at his feet anymore. It's me and him. Now or never.

Another hit, and the pain it causes right below my eye feels like an angel brushing my face. Another one, at the side of my head, and the ground suddely comes closer. My head hits the edge of a chair, leaving a hole. Blood is rushing down my face and neck, looking for a way down to start making those little oceans of freedom on the floor.

Without even bothering to whipe away the blood, I stand up again, my smile never faltering. With an awefully satisfying crack, I feel my knife hitting his spine as I trow myself at him and put all my strengt in slamming the knife in his body. There's a new sound, and to my surprise, it's the sound of my now hysterical laugh.

Now I start to stab him at every available bodypart, never taking away my eyes of off his. He chokes in the blood that is filling his lungs. I smile, and laugh. Blood on my hands, my face, all over my clothes. Freedom.

There are not just some oceans of red freedom on the floor. The whole room starts to look like an ocean itself. Mother is screaming her lungs out, but I hear nothing but my own laugh, his useless attempt to get air in his shredded lungs, the knife cutting through flesh. He falls, and I throw myself on top of him, putting the knife on his throat.
"Who's lauging now?" I whisper in his ear, and smash the knife down until it goes no further.

Red and blue lights are filling the room, distracting me from cutting off his hands. My mothers screaming has left the room, and is now on the streets in front of the house, where the lights are coming from. But I won't look up to see what's happening, I have to see his life slip away, to know for sure I'm free. I need to be free.

Strong hands take me by my arms just when he chokes out his last breath and I scream. I scream and cry, for the first time in years, I cry.
"I'm free! He will never hurt us again!"

That is when I notice who is holding my arms at my back, making me drop the knife. It's a man in a weird black outfit, a mask covering his face. But I can see in his eyes; pure fear.

When they ask me why I killed him, I will say it was out off self defense. The wounds on my face and my mothers condition will proof that.
When they ask me why I butchered him, I will say I did it this way because that is what he has done to me.

He has butchered me emotionally.
He killed me first.
I just payed him back.