Wrong answer

Chapter 4

A week had passed by now, and they hadn't caught Halla yet. They had her as a suspect but not guilty. In a matter of weeks they would give up and she wouldn't have to worry. They couldn't even find the weapon, how could they find the killer. It wasn't until her father started to question her did she worry. He said he thought he had heard something on that night, not knowing for sure. But it wasn't until he said those five words she had enough. That day she had questioned again for the third time this week. When the police left, her dad seemed to get angrier," You just to punch that girl and now you're a main suspect. "

"Hey, it's not my fault, she was annoying me for 4 years so I had to show her what it felt like," Halla replied.

"You could have handled it like a normal person would, but no I had to have a mental unstable child. You're just like your mother."

And those words had sealed his fate. For most people, saying they act a lot like their mother was a compliment but for Halla it was everything but a compliment. Her father would always say it as if her mother was always mean and out of order. She didn't even really know her mother; she had left before Halla was even one year old. He always said that when she misbehaved or started getting sad or angry. His idea of a perfect child was one that was always happy, no crying or anger allowed. She slowly walked to the kitchen, grabbing a knife, slowly walked back towards him with the knife. She then throw the knife at him, hitting him in the shoulder. He was about to pull the knife out, but she had run up and stabbed him in the chest. "How does it feel to have a killer as a daughter now, maybe you should have let me cry," she said with that huge grin she had before. He grabbed the knife in his shoulder, trying to protect himself from his own daughter by trying to cut her. He sliced her cheek and left wrist she had put up to protect her eye. This was the last thing he did before blacking out from the loss of blood. About 30 seconds, he was lying on the floor dead. She didn't have any remorse for him, he treated her like a stranger and compared her to someone who wouldn't even stay to take care if her child. For all she cared, he could rot in that house. She wrapped her two scars in bandages. She also grabbed her black jacket, a backpack, and the rest of the knives. She ran out of the house, with her purple t-shirt still covered in blood. Zipping up her jacket to hide it, no one was going to ruin her fun. On the run, she was free and no one could stop her. She would have her fun and no one would ever find her. Not even the greatest police men would find her.