Shit. Footsteps - you can hear them outside, so you take a quick moment to glance out your window.

Your father, Patrick, currently wearing a smart suit with hair glistening in the moonlight, trails towards the front door. Shit, shit, shit.

You quickly stuff the body into your closet, a lazy excuse for a body hiding spot. Then the door slams open and shut, footsteps padding across the floor and to the kitchen as he picks up his beer.

Now he's heading up the stairs, and it seems he can basically smell the blood.

You're left to stand there as your pyscho father opens up the closet. You never knew your mom, and you never knew your dad was mentally ill. He killed people he thought weren't worthy of living and went to loads of parties. You always wondered why you had thoughts about murder.

"First murder, huh?"

His eyes fall on the body which is tangled up on your clothing, before he looks at you.