Seven.
One. The four-year old boy. Sleeping in his bed. Didn't hear me approach until I put my hands around his neck. I left him wide-eyed and with a crushed trachea.
Two. His sister. Two years old. Eyes heavy, drifting in and out of sleep. A slight agitation from her part which I subdued quickly. She may have even swallowed her tongue.
Three. The father I did not touch. I broke a window before I left. Allowing his two children to deprive him from clarity of thought and provoke an irrational reaction, I waited outside in my 1969 Dodge Charger. A scream from within the house. Then a roar. Then silence. A moment later, the man rushed out of his house and sped off. I followed him. His erratic driving took him away from his suburb. I watched as he drove himself into the corner of a house.
Four. A forty-three year old mother of two. She was about to drive off from the open car park. Stabbed her five times in the throat. Turned to the children in the back of the car.
Five. A five-year old girl. She was screaming. Then gurgling.
Six. A girl, strapped in her baby chair. She watched silently and not understanding what I was. I left the knife on her red-soaked lap.
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