I have always dreamt abut having my bedroom appear as a murder scene. I wanted to splatter red paint on my black and white striped walls. Of course, Mom said no. Little did she know that her blood would drench my walls.

My brothers and I have all considered murdering her from one point to another. I can’t believe it actually happened though. And Why would it? We all hated her, but she put bread on the table.

I have this obsession with creepy items, but only Bobby knew my bedroom idea. I haven’t seen him since he ran away in August. So I highly doubt he would have done it. He was free, so he wouldn’t have come back to risk his freedom.

This wasn’t exactly the kind of house an average person would want to live in. Everyday I come home from school to walk into a garbage dump. Mom is a hoarder to an extreme degree. Boxes upon boxes are stacked on eachother, leaving only a small walkway for moving about the house. Our living room is at the point of no return; nobody has waked in there since 2001.