I saw my parents throw a large wooden crate into the river and walk away laughing.
When I ran closer to the water’s edge, I heard a faint muffled sound coming from inside the crate as it started sinking.
“Please be empty,” I whispered as I jumped into the freezing water and dragged it back to shore with all my strength.
My parents saw me and rushed back.
My father grabbed me by the hair and threw me to the ground.
“Mind your own business.”
My mother kicked my ribs hard.
“Leave it alone.”
When I fought back, she punched me in the face, knocking me down.
But I crawled back and pried the crate open with a rock.
My hands were shaking as the lid came off.
What I saw inside made me scream.
My four-year-old daughter was tied up and gagged, soaking wet and barely conscious.
And that’s when I decided to destroy their lives.
The November air cut through my jacket as I walked along the riverbank that afternoon. I’d taken the scenic route home from work, needing time to clear my head if ever a stressful day. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting orange light across the water.
Everything seemed peaceful until I noticed two figures standing near the old boat launch about 50 yards ahead. Something about their movements caught my attention. They were struggling with a large wooden crate, the kind used for shipping heavy equipment. The box must have weighed at least 100 pounds based on how they strained to carry it between them.
As they reached the river’s edge, I recognized the woman’s purple coat.
My stomach dropped.
That was my mother, Donna.
The man beside her was my father, Gerald.
I froze behind a cluster of trees, unsure why I felt the need to hide from my own parents. They’d been acting strange lately, making excuses whenever I asked to bring my daughter Arya over for visits. Donna had claimed she was redecorating. Gerald said he’d been feeling under the weather.
Their reasons kept changing, but the message stayed consistent.
Stay away.
They lifted the crate together, swinging it once, twice, then launching it into the river with a heavy splash. The sound echoed across the water. Both of them stood there for a moment, watching it sink.
Then Donna started laughing.
Gerald joined in, their voices carrying across the distance between us.
The sound made my skin crawl. There was something cruel in that laughter, something that didn’t match the simple act of disposing of an old box.
I should have turned around and walked away. Part of me wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen anything.
But curiosity pulled me forward.
The crate had already started drifting with a current, water seeping through the wooden slats.
My parents turned to leave, still chuckling about something I couldn’t hear.
Then I heard it.
A muffled sound, faint, almost imperceptible over the rushing water.
My heart seized in my chest.
No.
It couldn’t be.
The crate was bobbing near the surface, slowly taking on water.
That sound came again.
Definitely not my imagination.
My feet moved before my brain caught up.
I sprinted toward the water’s edge, my shoes pounding against the dirt path.
The crate had drifted about 10 ft from shore, sinking lower with each passing second.
Without thinking, I kicked off my shoes and jumped into the freezing November water.
The cold hit me like a physical blow.
My lungs constricted.
Every muscle in my body screamed at me to get out.
But I pushed forward, swimming toward the crate with strokes that felt clumsy and desperate.
The current fought against me.
My clothes weighed me down.
I grabbed onto the wooden edge just as it started to go under completely.
The weight nearly pulled me down with it.
I kicked hard, trying to drag it back toward shore.
My fingers achd from gripping the rough wood.
Water splashed into my mouth and nose.
The distance back to land felt impossible.
Every inch forward required all my strength.
Hands suddenly grabbed my shoulders, yanking me backward.
I lost my grip on the crate.
My father’s face appeared above mine, twisted with rage.
He dragged me onto the muddy bank and seized a handful of my hair, pulling hard enough to make my eyes water.
Before I could speak, he threw me to the ground.
His voice came out as a roar.
I tried to stand, but my mother’s foot connected with my ribs.
Pain exploded through my side.
I gasped, unable to draw a full breath.
Donna’s face showed no recognition that she was attacking her own daughter. Her eyes were wild, almost unrecognizable.
I pushed myself up on my elbows. The crate was still there, maybe 15 ft out, barely visible above the waterline.
That muffled sound came again, louder this time, more desperate.
I lunged toward the water, but my mother grabbed my arm and spun me around.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
