Pa lies on their bed, one foot on the floor, a jug of corn whiskey spilled on him. I look at him in rage, my eyes upon the large blood-stained knife lying on the floor. It is heavy as I lift it from the floor and raise it over my head, tensing my muscles to strike, but stop before I do something foolish. I cannot kill my father in his sleep. "Pa." I gently slap his face to wake him, "Pa, wake up." I slap him even harder, an evil smile forming on my lips as he opens his eyes. "It's your dumb ass son, Pa, your dumb little pissant son. I see mom, there she is, right where you left her, see her?" He staggers and looks at my mother's dead body and takes a swing at me. The hunting knife slides easily into his throat, and his startled expression gives me great satisfaction as blood flows over my hand, warm slippery blood, and I twist the blade with pleasure as he slumps to my side.