Junior

I dislike a lot of aspects of my life. My pale skin. My acne ridden face that won't clear up no matter what product I used. Those are some of the things that I don't like, but I deal with them. It's not like I can do much about it right?

But there's one thing that I truly truly despise. No, that word isn't strong enough. Hate. Yes, hate is the right term.

This thing. This one aspect of my life is what I hate the most. It's one word that continuously molds and transforms my life on a daily basis. This word is the cause of most of the stress in my life and I'm only thirteen!

Junior.

That's it. That's the word and I hate it. I hate it so much I spend whole nights awake in my bed thinking about it. I think about the person who invented the word and I think about wanting to strangle him. But he's already dead, so I can't.

But I suppose I could eliminate the next best thing.

The person who's responsible for me being called Junior.

My father.

It's his fault.

Who names their kid after them and then adds 'junior'? It's ridiculous! It's insulting! What am I a clone? A mindless duplicate? I hate being number two! I can't stand it. I was so much better than him! Younger! Brighter! Filled with hope and inspiration!

Every day I'm called "Junior."

"Junior come down for dinner."

"Junior will you come to my birthday party?"

"Junior what's the answer to this question?"

Junior. Junior. JUNIOR!

I hate it! My name is not Junior! It's Thomas! Thomas Harrison! They could have called me anything! Tom! Tommy! Harry! Anything! But they chose to call me Junior!

Everyday is a constant reminder that I'm number two. That I'll never be called by my true name.

Well.

Not as long as he's alive.

- -

It came to me suddenly during the night. A little thought. Something that I had been tossing around in my mind for months but it never quite made it into the forefront until that night.

Kill him.

Kill him and then you'll be number one. Thomas Harrison. The only Thomas Harrison. No competition. No copies. No duplicates. Only you.

But how? I was thirteen and my father was fifty five years, three hours and a fifteen minutes old. I could never take him down physically. Not without help, and if I hired help I would have to pay them with money that I didn't have.

No. I would have to due this alone, with only my intelligence to help me.

That was another thing that separated my father and I. My intelligence. He hadn't even gone to college! Clearly I was the superior beast. And yet he still earned a name while I was stuck with a degrading title.

Nevertheless, I would earn my name soon.

I had figured it out. How I was going to end him, that is.

In class the other day, during chemistry, we had just learned of multiple every day food ingredients that we should never use too much of.

Nutmeg was one of them.

And because my mother was a pastry chef; we had a lot of it.

My father likes to have a bowl of oatmeal before he left for work every morning. A sign of his old age and decay. He was obviously rotting and yet I still couldn't have the name.

Two teaspoons is enough to poison the average person, but I added an additional teaspoon, just to be sure.

I watched him scarf down the oatmeal, shoveling it down his throat like some type of disgusting starved animal. I felt my hopes soar, then crash to the ground when he didn't drop dead immediately.

How dare that idiot teacher ruin my plans--

"See ya later kiddo." My father said, ruffling my hair and walking out the door.

It was then that I came to my senses. What had I been thinking? Trying to kill my dad over such a trivial matter? Was I insane?

A surprised scream echoed from outside and I rushed out to see my mother, crouched over my father's body that was collapsed on the side walk.

"Oh God! Oh God!" My mother screamed, turning towards me. "Thomas, Thomas call the paramedics!" She shrieked.

I stumbled backwards, tripping over a stone.

My God. What a grave mistake I've made.