My parents lied to me. They told me the same fabricated bullshit that parents all over the world tell their children: “Yes there is a Santa Claus,â€? “Your grandfather is in heaven looking down on you,â€? “We’ll always love you; no matter what.â€?

And the biggest lie of all: “You can be anything you want when you grow up.â€?

I was never going to be a male model when I grew up. Probably had a better chance of sprouting tentacles than becoming a professional basketball player. Never could sing; don’t have the rhythm to play an instrument. All through school, I knew my parents couldn’t afford college, and I wasn’t willing to put in the effort to earn a scholarship.

No, when my parents told me I could be anything I wanted, they knew it was a lie. Young and naive, I believed them. Every word they said, I believed it all.

Standing over them now, gun in my hand, remembering those lies will make what I have to do that much easier.

A tear runs down my mother’s cheek, diverted by the duct tape. “I remember the lies, mom.”