The hope you give

• Short story
• Mystery

								
Growing up, I always knew I was different from my family. I was the black sheep, the odd one out. I wasn't their real daughter, just a reminder of my father's past mistakes. My stepmother made sure to remind me of that fact every chance she got. She favored my stepbrother, showering him with love and affection while I was left to fend for myself.

I felt like an outsider in my own home, always longing for the love and acceptance that seemed to evade me at every turn. My stepbrother, Jake, was the picture-perfect son my mother had always wanted. He was handsome, charming, and excelled in everything he did. Meanwhile, I was constantly reminded of my flaws and shortcomings.

As the years passed, the resentment I felt towards my family simmered just beneath the surface. I began to harbor dark thoughts, fantasies of revenge and retribution. I wanted to make them pay for the way they had treated me, for making me feel like I was worth less than nothing.

One fateful night, the opportunity presented itself. My stepbrother had been cooped up in his room sleeping to loud music, leaving my stepmother and I alone in the house. A twisted idea began to form in my mind, a plan to rid myself of the one person who had made my life a living hell.

As my stepmother sat watching television, I crept up behind her, a knife clutched tightly in my hand. With one swift motion, I plunged the blade into her back, relishing in the sight of her blood soaking through her clothes. She let out a choked gasp, her eyes widening in shock and fear. I watched as life drained from her body, a sick satisfaction washing over me.

I had done it. I had killed the woman who had made my life hell. But as I stood over her lifeless body, a sense of dread began to creep over me. What if someone found out? What if my step brother came out of his slumber and saw what I had done?

I quickly devised a plan to make it look like Jake had been the one to commit the murder. I planted the knife in his room quietly , making sure to leave behind enough evidence to incriminate him. I had finally gotten my revenge, and I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction.

But my triumph was short-lived. As I was cleaning up the mess, my father burst through the front door, his face contorted with rage. He had heard about the murder and had come home to confront us. I could see the disbelief in his eyes as he took in the scene before him, the horror of what I had done written plainly on his face.

Before I could react, he had grabbed a gun from his waistband and pointed it at me. I tried to explain, to make him understand why I had done it, but he would not listen. In his eyes, I was a monster, a cold-blooded killer who had taken the life of his beloved.

As the gun went off, the world seemed to slow down around me. I could feel the searing pain of the bullet as it tore through my flesh, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. I fell to the ground, my vision swimming in and out of focus.

As I lay dying on the floor, I realized I had killed the only family I had left, all in the pursuit of revenge. And now, as I felt the icy grip of death closing in around me, I knew that my actions had sealed my fate.

The room grew dimmer, the sounds of my father's anguished cries echoing in my ears. In my final moments, I prayed for forgiveness, for a chance to make things right. But it was too late. My sins had caught up with me, and now I was paying the ultimate price.

As the darkness enveloped me, I knew that I would never escape the horrors of my past, that my soul would be forever tainted by the blood on my hands. And as I took my last breath, I knew that this was a fate “ had brought upon myself.”
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