When I was six years old, I went into my bedroom, emptied my blue piggy bank into my hands, stuffed the coins into the pockets of my dungarees, and snuck out the basement door. I walked in the freezing cold, dressed in nothing but my blue dungarees and red wellie boots. My blonde pigtails swung in the cold night air and the tight rubber of my boots scuffed my feet raw until they were a matching shade of red. I was tired, and I was cold, and I was hungry. But I didn’t stop. I kept walking with purpose and determination because I knew I had to. My pockets jingled with every step and the soles of my feet had begun to bleed. It was the dead of night and there was no one around. Being up this late was no stranger to me, I often found it hard to sleep, and even when I did, I was regularly woken again. But it felt strange to not only be awake at this time, but to be outside, alone. I was frightened as I made the decision to leave my house that night. I was frightened as I made the long trip to the other side of town. I was frightened as I walked up the wooden steps of number 23. I was frightened as I reached a small, cold hand forward and knocked on the door.

I was terrified as I waited for someone to answer. A small part of me hoped the door would stay closed. A bigger part of me knew that the door had to be opened.

I shook as I waited. Nerves and the cold wracking my small frame with shivers. My pale lips were surely turning blue. I felt faint from the hunger. I was tired and my limbs ached. I looked behind me and saw it was starting to snow. Dainty little snowflakes were falling around me, landing in my hair, eyebrows, on my clothes. I caught one on my finger and watched it melt. I thought about how great it must feel to be as free as the snow. To come and go as you pleased. To disappear and reanimate as you saw fit. To be able to slip through someone’s fingertips and out of harm’s way. I thought about how I wished I were free.

That was why I was here. To be free. To finally be free from all the pain. All the fear. From Him.

And that’s when the door opened.

She stood there, dressed all in black, her bright auburn hair flowing about her shoulders. Her green eyes looked down at me in accusation. Her hands were on her hips and she looked just about ready to turn me away. To slam the door and send me back home. Back to Him. That sent fear straight to my chest. My heart started beating faster as I realised, I needed to act quick or I would be stuck forever.

I wiped my sweaty palms on the blue denim of my clothes, reached my small hands into my pockets and scooped out as many coins as I could, a few slipping through my fingers onto the porch. I held my brimming hands out towards her and looked up and her, silently pleading with her to do what I wanted her to do. what I needed her to do.

“I need you to kill my father.”