<div style="margin:20px; margin-top:5px"><div class="quotetitle"><input class="button2 btnlite" onclick="if (this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display != '') { this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = '';      this.innerText = ''; this.value = 'Hide'; } else { this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = 'none'; this.innerText = ''; this.value = 'Show'; }" style="text-align:center;width:100px;margin:0px;padding:0px;" type="button" value="Show"/></div><div class="quotecontent"><div style="display: none;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://i228.photobucket.com/albums/ee77/Bernstal/2969554155_6ce4e30978.jpg">[ img ]</a></div><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Name</span>: Stephen Quincy<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Age</span>: 14<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Alias</span>: N/A</div></div></div><br/><br/><br/>They had seen him when he was weak and he hated them for it. He was aware, even now, that most kids his age probably didnâ€™t hate their parents that way. But knowing that didnâ€™t make him hate them any less. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. It was only now that he couldnâ€™t stand it anymore. He couldnâ€™t suffer silently any longer. When he was seven, theyâ€™d taken him to see a doctor about his violent tantrums but that had only taught him that to get by he couldnâ€™t go quite that far. So heâ€™d begun to silently, sullenly hate them; he beat them to death only in his daydreams instead of in reality.<br/><br/>Today had been different.<br/><br/>It hadnâ€™t started out different. Just like every other weekday heâ€™d gotten through school in one piece, doodling mostly. When heâ€™d gotten home, he went to check the live traps in the empty field behind the house. More perfect suburban homes were supposed to go up, but construction had mostly stopped. In one place, they had abandoned equipment not long after the foundation had been laid. Heâ€™d found a length of steel rebar there and on his way out, picked it up.<br/><br/>There was a raccoon in one of the traps, instead of the usual feral cats that went after the tuna â€“his parents had wondered why they went through so much, but heâ€™d told them it was his favorite food. It was the raccoon that made him realize things were different. When heâ€™d poked holes in its head through the trap screen, it didnâ€™t make him feel any better.<br/><br/>Staring at the dead raccoon and the bloody steel, he didnâ€™t know what to do. A yowl from a trapped cat brought him around. Now what? He killed the cat too â€“ the one that had made the sound and was fighting the trap, rattling it around savagely. That didnâ€™t help either. Disgusted, he made his way back home.<br/><br/>His mother was in the kitchen, finishing dinner by the time he was back. His father was in the shower; he could hear the rush of water upstairs. â€œSet the table for me, Stevie,â€ her voice rang out as he closed the backdoor. He hit her in the back of the head until she stopped moving. Her screaming brought his father tearing out of the shower, naked as the day he was born.<br/><br/>The surprise of seeing his son with the bloody steel, not some strange attacker, made him pause. Stephen swung wildly until heâ€™d stopped moving too.<br/><br/>That was betterâ€¦