For twenty years my father looked down on me. As soon as he learned his firstborn was going to be a girl, he resented me, even as a fetus. And when I couldn't hear, he started to see me as a thing. His daughter, his own flesh and blood, meant no more to him than a desk, or the lamp that sits atop it. He did me no favors in life, never helping me with homework, never attempting to learn sign language, not even comforting me when my mother passed. I was a child then, and I needed a parent, but all I had was an enemy. I found something that year that nobody can ever take from me. Strength.
 
I have never been the most physically intimidating person, but I am determined to improve, even if it takes years, I will prove to others that I am inferior to none, especially my father. I've traveled many miles, and spent many years preparing for this. I've gone over my plan thousands of times, and I have eliminated all tactical weaknesses. It's time to take what's mine.
 
I approach my childhood home with my supplies under my arm, most in a pack, but the boards are too big. It's a funny thought, seven things being all I need to accomplish my plan. I start in the front yard, turning on the water faucet, watching the cold water spread out into the lawn, the moonlight dancing on its surface. It will take a while to soften the dirt, so I proceed with phase two, the back door. I don't expect him to try to escape this way, but it's part of the plan. I spent a lot of time on these two pieces of wood. Finding a tree with strong fibers, strong enough to keep a door shut, even with a panicked ogre on the other side. I spent time trying to remember the length I'd need to perfectly fit between the doorknob and the hardwood patio. As I fit the boards beneath the brass knobs, I breathe a small sigh of relief when they fit as I had hoped. This was the part I was unsure of. With this done, I am entirely confident in the rest.
 
I make my way back to the front of the house, and when I get there, I see that the water is still freely pouring into the grass. I put my foot in the yard, putting a little weight into it. I am pleased when it sinks about two and a half centimeters. I turn the water off, as I don't think any more is needed.
 
Now it's time for phase three, where my disability will be my greatest disadvantage. I take the key out of my pocket and fit it into the lock as carefully as possible. It fits, and I enter the house, realizing that I will never come here again. I let the thought pass, as reminiscing will only slow me down. I make my way to the stairs and walk up to the second floor. This is where the third phase takes place. I set my pack on the ground and remove its contents: three four-liter sized bottles of gasoline. I take the first bottle and walk down the hallway towards my father's room. I stop approximately six meters from his door and open the bottle of fuel. As I pour it onto the floor, I take care to walk backwards and not bump into anything. The bottle empties half a meter away from my other supplies, reminding me to be quicker with the next two. I put the empty bottle into the pack and sling it over my shoulder, opening the next bottle before continuing down the stairs. I pour the gas onto the stairs, and the smell is both disgusting and intoxicating at the same time. I take care not to trip and fall down the stairs, lest these years of preparation go to waste.
 
The bottle empties a meter after I get off the last step, leaving me plenty of gas to get to the door. I place the second empty bottle into my pack and open the last one. I splash some fuel onto the walls, in addition to the floor, hoping it will feed the flames. When I get to the door, I have half a liter left, so I apply it liberally to the entrance, making sure to splash the walls and door itself.
 
And here is where I pause for a moment. I haven't gone through with it yet, and there is still time to leave. I could go now, and no one would know it was me who did this. There would be some confusion, but nobody would be dead in the morning. I shake my head, ridding myself of any doubt. I have spent the last few years perfecting this plan, and I will not let doubt stop what has been set in motion by the monster upstairs. I take the pack of matches out of my pocket and strike one, its flame beautiful in the darkness. I fit it back into the pack and watch it burn its family, and I can't help but smile at how fitting a metaphor that is. I toss the burning pack onto the puddle of fuel soaking into my father's floor and shut the front door, locking it with the key he never took from me. Anything to slow his escape, though I know where he'll go. I'm planning on his usual recklessness and bravado. He is nothing if not a creature of habit.
 
I stand on the front porch, and I can already feel the heat building inside the house escape through the door. It feels like hours have passed, but I know it can be no more than a few minutes, when I see his shape burst through his bedroom window, hurtling down, towards the muddy lawn. If the grass was dry, his landing would have been a thing of beauty, perfected over years of hard work. If the dirt had not drank in the water like a dying man, his ankle would not have been bent at such an awful angle.
 
I approach him with decisiveness, a smile on my face when I see his sword at his side. He always did trust brawn over brains. My cleats keep me upright in the loose ground, and I take pleasure in taking his sword from him. Even that ritual of stealing away my father's symbol of power isn't as rewarding as the look on his face, though. The look of realization, of recognition. He knows who is killing him, and he knows why. I take the sword from the scabbard, but I don't toss the empty thing aside. I'm sure Musashi would be proud.
 
As I raise the sword above my head, the point aimed at my father, I see him move his lips, fear in his eyes for the first time I can recall. It disgusts me to know that the man who brought me so much pain is so weak when faced with his death. He tried to convince me my entire life that he was better than me, and sometimes I felt like he might be right. But seeing him now, I realize that he was putting on a show the whole time. He knows he's nothing more than a liar, a showboating loudmouth. My hands are shaking now, my emotions getting the better of me, but I don't mind. For once, I let myself act on my feelings, and it's incredible. This man, my father, has done everything in his power to push me down. Whenever I accomplished something, he insulted me. Whenever I did something he told me I couldn't do, he said that he could have done it better. He spent so much time and energy making sure I knew he didn't care about me. It's my turn to show him how I feel.
 
As I bring the sword down with a lifetime of anger and frustration behind it, I experience two things at once, the sword approaching his heart at a snail's pace, and my life, flooding my mind at an incomprehensible speed. It moves thirty centimeters, and I'm a girl, playing in the sprinkler out back. I turn and wave to my parents. Mommy smiles at me and waves back, but daddy just turns away. Another thirty centimeters. I'm in a park with a lot of statues, and people dressed nice. Mommy's sleeping in a box, and Dad looks angry. I feel sad, because he won't let me wake mommy up.
 
This time, twenty centimeters. Father brings me into his study and starts shouting at me. I try to sign to him that I can't hear him, but he grabs my hands and keeps shouting. I start crying, but he won't let me go. He finally stops and writes something on a piece of paper. I read it, and start to cry again. All it says is "SPEAK." Another twenty. Father and I settled on communicating through a notepad. It frustrated us both. Me, because he didn't care enough to learn sign language, and him, because I couldn't speak. Even talking about simple things like what kind of clothes I needed, or where I was going, took up to an hour, so we stopped talking unless absolutely necessary. Twenty centimeters. Father tells me that he's sending me to Yamaku, a school for disabled children. He says it's a good school, and they can accommodate my needs there. I want to protest, but it seems like I'd be able to get away from him, and maybe meet people who understand me. Ten centimeters. I came back home after my first year at Yamaku, bringing Misha along. I hoped she would be able to translate between Father and I, but her bubbly personality only angered him. He tolerated our presence, but it felt like school couldn't start soon enough. He even yelled at Misha when he caught her sitting in his chair, making her cry. No one should ever make a girl cry, especially Misha.
 
Ten centimeters. I tried to ask my dad for advice, but he wouldn't help. He said I should be strong enough to solve my own problems. I needed help, though. My friend said she was in love with me. I didn't want to lose her, but I didn't feel the same way that she did. Why couldn't he just be a dad, for once in my life? The blade closes the distance during the memory of my last time seeing my father. It was at my graduation from Yamaku. I was wearing a cap and gown, having my picture taken with Misha. We had stayed friends, and she had moved on and gotten over me. Father was there, only out of a sense of duty. He offered no congratulations, and made no effort to make me feel proud. I didn't care. I had stopped caring about his opinion a while ago. With that memory's end, I can feel the sword pierce his chest, and pass through him, into the ground, and I find no greater joy in this moment than knowing that no one will ever know his final words, not even his killer.
 
After the thing is done, I don't feel my power and determination go, as they're gone too quickly to notice the change. I don't feel myself hit the ground, I don't feel the cold mud on my knees, and I don't feel my father's blood on my hands. The only thing I feel are the hot tears, stinging my cheeks in the cool night air. I sit like this for what must be an hour, letting the years of pent-up emotions take control, the house burning behind me. I hate him, even now. He could have been so much more than he was. He could have made an effort to know me, to love me. I wonder: if he had been different, what kind of person would I be right now? I wouldn't be here, sitting in mud that is quickly becoming wetter with blood, that's for sure. I might not have even been sent to Yamaku. He may have sent me to a normal school, if he wasn't so ashamed of me. I might have never met Misha, or grown so distant from Lilly. I might be happy now, instead of feeling so damn broken. I know time is of the essence, but I continue to let the tears come, pitying myself for a while longer.
 
Crying wasn't part of the plan, but it's too much for me to hold in right now. Thankfully, the house is secluded, due to my father's sense of superiority. It will still be a while before anyone notices the smoke, and I'll be gone by then. When my emotions finally subside, I feel lighter, as if a burden had been removed from my shoulders. I take one of the last two items out of my pack, a blue hooded sweater I brought, to hide any blood I would get on my shirt. I put it on, glad to have a barrier between the cold and I. I make my way off the property and into the nearby park. It will be easy to disappear into the city from there, and meet up with my alibi. The plan isn't finished just yet, but at least the first night went perfectly.