 Most people my age will say, to some degree, that they don't like their parents. I've heard my classmates say it dozens of times, maybe hundreds. Some of them say it out of frustration and contradict it later. But a few, like me, have a reason for saying it. My parents were normal people when I was born. My dad was a landscaper with a mildly successful company. While my mom was a hairstylist, money wasn't pouring in, but we could get by. It all changed when I turned five. As a hobby, dad liked to buy lottery tickets, only one a month in case he got lucky. One day, he did. Big time. Suddenly, he had 50 million reasons to celebrate. In less than a year, he'd bought out a few successful companies and we were rolling in money. Mom adapted to the lifestyle of a millionaire's wife very quickly. As for me, I'd be lying if I said that five year old me didn't enjoy suddenly having whatever I wanted. But money and what it can do can change people. Shooting to the top of the social ladder was an instantaneous ego boost to both of my parents. My dad, after he'd bought a big house, fancy cars, and all of the other standard toys, began finding other ways to use his money. I got slapped when I was six for taking what I thought was sugar out of my desk drawer. Thankfully, I didn't need any. He became paranoid, narcissistic, and just different. Mom was no better. She practically lived at the mall, clothes, shoes, makeup, hats, jewelry, anything she liked she bought. She also discovered alcohol in a new way. Before the lottery ticket, I can't remember her having more than one glass of wine with dinner. Suddenly, it was all she wanted to drink scotch bourbon grey goose. She tried and liked it all. I didn't recognize them anymore. They were selfish vain and barely acknowledged my existence. True, they paid for me to attend a good private school and showered me with gifts at Christmas and on my birthday, but I couldn't talk to them like I used to. I wanted to be able to talk to them again. To make them see me, I might as well have tried to talk to two statues. Everything changed again when I was 14. I came home from school one rainy Thursday night and no one was there. I was surprised but not worried. Last minute trips weren't unusual for them. Once they left me alone for a whole week without so much as a note. While they took a surprise couple's trip to Tokyo, I can't complain. They brought me back a t-shirt. They still hadn't come home on Friday morning. I still wasn't worried. I was surprised, though, that they hadn't called or texted. Still, I didn't let myself worry. I went to school with a limo driver, got a chai latte and muffin for breakfast, and I tried to forget about it. I came home that night. Still no parents. I still tried not to worry. The weekend flew by. I called them. No answer. I texted. I even emailed. Nothing. I took myself to the movies and met with a few friends to try and take my mind off of my parents. It was by Monday when dad's personal assistant stopped by to ask why he wasn't answering his phone, that I finally realized something was wrong. I didn't know what to do. I considered calling the cops, but I didn't. I remembered when someone broke into Mom and I's hotel room when she and I were on a trip in London. I tried to call the police, but she'd slapped me. She refused to allow the press to give us negative publicity. Thus, she cut our losses and booked us an immediate flight home. But this was different. After mauling my few options, I finally decided to go into their room and look for clues. I'd been all but banned from their room after I'd found the bag of not sugar, but at that point I was getting desperate. I gasped when I entered their room. The place was trashed. The bed's mattress had been gutted. Stuffing was everywhere. The pillows had met the same fate and the blankets were tied into knots. The headboard had been knocked askew and scratches in the paint showed that it had been violently knocked against the wall. The dresser had been knocked on the floor, with my mother's extensive jewelry collection lying in a tangled mess. Their clothes were all over the floor, ripped to shreds, mixed in with a snow white powder, which I instantly knew was my father's. But the trashed room wasn't what scared me. The canopy over their bed had been ripped from the post and nailed to the wall. On it was a message written in my father's black fountain pen. It said, the mirror knows the way. I automatically turned to my mother's vanity in the corner. It was untouched. There was something off about the mirror's reflection. As I walked closer, I realized why. It wasn't a reflection at all. I saw a bedroom, but it wasn't the room I was in. I didn't want to touch the surface. I wanted to run. But for one moment, it felt like I didn't have control of myself. Before I knew what was happening, I touched the mirror. Suddenly, I felt something akin to a huge gust of wind hitting me in the face. It all happened so fast that I couldn't even register what I was seeing. All I know for sure was that one moment I was in my parents' ruined bedroom and the next moment I was there wherever there was. It reminded me of a church chapel, tall ceilings, somewhat simple structure, and long hallways. Except, the walls were all black and they were made of some type of unidentifiable material. There weren't any windows, light bulbs, or even candles, but there was still light. The floor was blood red and seemed to almost pulsate. I was scared out of my mind. I was looking for a way out, anyway, and then I heard a voice. I tried to find out where it was coming from and I started to walk in that direction. I found myself in a huge entry hall. Floating in something resembling a bubble over a gigantic throne were my parents, but it was what was lying on that throne that caught my attention. It had the body of a gigantic bubblegum pink snake with thousands of hands and a watermelon shaped head, but the most striking thing was its face. It had pale purple eyes and a Cheshire cat grin. Finally, I found my voice. Why are you doing this? What do you want? First. What kind of game? A child is incredibly rich. I could eat you for a week. On the other hand, for the same amount of time, I can't decide. So, you will, if you choose to go home in the next few days, you will be able to find out where it is coming from. So, I found my voice. Why are you doing this? What do you want? First. What kind of game? A child is incredibly rich. I can't decide. So, you will, if you choose to go home and leave your parents with me, then I will eat them both and never bother you again. If you choose to stay, however, then you will be consumed while they return home with no memory of what has transpired. I call it catch and release. I was shocked. Either they died, or I would. I tried to think. What would they do if the tables were reversed? I looked at them in the bubble. They looked like they were sleeping, standing up. My dad was dressed for work, wearing a three-piece suit and his favorite green tie. My mom was dressed in her favorite blue sweater and designer jeans. Both had bruises and scratches all over their faces. Could I talk to them for a moment first? The creature looked at the bubble. Then me. That can be. I shot into the air and entered the bubble. My parents remained in their trance for a second. Then they blinked and saw me and where they were. What the hell have you done? My father eyes wide with shock, anger, and fear whirled around, staring at his prison. My mother, in a similar state of shock, went over to me and started to shriek. What have you done? Get us out of here! I never got a word in. They just kept shrieking. After a few seconds, I just tuned them out. Like a movie, memories resurfaced, being slapped for touching or doing things I shouldn't have, getting yelled at for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I wasn't their child anymore. I was just a part of their image. I was suddenly overwhelmed with anger, hate, and grief. I didn't want them to come home with me. I wanted them gone. If I wasn't their child, then they weren't my parents. Before their tirade ended, I was yanked back down to the ground, facing the creature once again. I looked again at the bubble. They were staring at me. There was no anger in their faces anymore, just shock and fear. I wonder now and then if they realized what I was about to do. Take them. The creature's grin got wider, and in less than a minute, I was in the middle of my parents' bedroom again. It wasn't a mess anymore. The bed was all made up, the canopy was attached, the wardrobe was standing, the floor was clean, and the mirror was a mirror again. I was numb. Then I realized what I'd done. I broke down weeping. I still don't know if it was out of sadness or joy. I called the police. I told the truth. My parents were missing. My aunts came to stay with me while the police started an investigation. They found nothing. I knew they wouldn't. The will left their entire fortune to me. I'm allowed to have full ownership of it when I turn 25. Until then, I'll stay with my aunts in the huge house that now belongs to them. I went to therapy, where I told them the true story, disguising it as a dream. I'm okay now, mostly. The story got out that my parents had emotionally and physically abused me. Their reputation was destroyed, other than my aunts, the pastor and I. No one came to their funeral. I didn't even put a rose on their graves. I can't complain. Things could have ended a lot worse. My aunts are better parental figures than my parents ever were. But I don't keep mirrors in the house anymore.