I was probably thirteen or fourteen when I first held a gun. It's an interesting story, want to hear it? No, I guessed you wouldn't. I don't see any other storytellers holding you at gunpoint, so sit tight and listen. Now, now, I'm not completely cruel. I just can't stand not being heard, especially when I need to say something. I haven't thought of this for such a long time, so I'm going to have to force you to listen…Don't talk, I have a good sized roll of duct tape here.

You can probably guess that my family wasn't the best, and I don't tell you that for pity. I tell you that so you can understand something. I was a smart child, but neither my mother nor my father could see it for they both were astoundingly ignorant. They never noticed as I grew. I told them that I read every book in the house and their only reply was "Where'd you learn to read?" I guess it must have slipped their mind that they had sent me to school, and a year late at that. I caught up quickly, though, and skipped third and fourth grade. My teachers saw my advancement as something rather amazing, but when they tried to tell my father he just laughed in their faces and slammed the door.

In my second year of high school, I was taking chemistry and we did a study on gunpowder. I asked my father if I could see one of his guns, for he had many for hunting and a few just for the hell of it. He didn't answer, so I took it as a yes. I went to his ammunition closet—which was more a room, I guess that's why I slept in the garage—and retrieved a good-sized handgun. It wasn't loaded, so I tried to figure out what I was doing. I soon had it loaded with a single shot. It was then that I heard my father coming down the hall.

"That bastard," I heard him say, "I'll kill him." It didn't take more than a moment for me to realize whom he was talking about. I replaced the handgun and stood back from the cabinet that held his guns. The door swung open. "What the hell do you think you're doing in here?"

Now, listen, I was not the strongest guy, and my father toward over me maybe by two or three feet. So you see why I had trouble keeping my voice steady. "I just wanted to see your guns," I said, "I asked." It was a weak attempt at saving myself and I knew it.

"You idiot!" he hissed grabbing my arm roughly, "You could kill yourself." I doubt that that's what he really cared about. He was probably more worried I'd end up taking one apart and not putting it back together—I did that with the clock in the hall when I was eight.

I tried to get out of his grasp, but to no avail. "Let me go!" I shouted at him, "That hurts." I thought that he would break my arm if he didn't let go.

"You think this hurts?" he asked. He twisted my arm until I heard my shoulder pop out of the socket. "That hurts."

It really did. You know how sometimes people can easily pull their arm out and pop it back in? Well, that's because they had done it before in their childhood. I can do it now without pain, see? It's not that gross. Well the first time it hurts like hell. He let me go and I fell to the floor.

"Get your ass out of this room," my father said and he turned his back to me and began to walk towards the door.

Now, I'd had just about enough of his disregard for my well being. "Son of a bitch," I muttered, using profanity for the first time verbally. I went to the cabinet again and took out the handgun. I've been called crazy before. Well of course you know you just did in the parking lot, didn't you? Well, I think I really was slightly insane when I held that gun, aimed and fire into the back of my father's head.

I told you it was an interesting story. Oh, but what I did next is outrageous! I took that gun and loaded with another single shot. This was kind of strange, because I didn't want to even move my left arm so I was doing it one handed. I went to the kitchen to find my mother with the gun held behind my back. She was really shocked, I think because of the gunshot.

She looked at me once and she got suspicious. "You little monster," she said, "did you just waste your father's ammunition? And what the hell's wrong with your arm?"

I was strangely calm, whereas most people are shaky the first time the kill some one with a gun. I shrugged. "I didn't waste it," I told her, "I won't waste this shot either." I aimed the gun at her and the look on her face was truly priceless. I shot her in the stomach. When she fell I walked up to her and looked down on her. "I read that anatomy book on that bookshelf by your bed," I hissed, "It'll take you at least twenty minutes to die. I wish you could watch as your stomach acids spill out into your blood."

That was the day I ran away from home. I'm not sure how I got to doing things like this. I guess boredom. What do you think? You already said that, friend, let's not get redundant.

Well, maybe I am a nutcase, but at least I put it to good use. Have you found that file yet? As much as I love nostalgia, I'm getting a little impatient here. Hurry up or I'll find it myself. You have ten seconds. Nine. Try looking there. Eight…Seven…Six. Your hands are shaking. Five…Four. You should really consider making a search engine for your entire hard drive. Three…Two…One. Sorry, but you still haven't found it and I haven't got all night.

Shit! I can't see anything, there's too much blood on the screen. And there's a tooth in the keys. Well, that's that, I guess I'll have to find it some other way. Sorry you had to die for no reason. Have a nice night!

Disclaimer: I don't own Bill Cox or the entire concept of Firewall. I do, however, own the little story about his past.

Rating: PG-13 (Violence and language)

Author's Note: I did write this on a different account, but said account kind of died. So I decided to post it here. I wrote another version, which I might put in a different chapter. It's not a version as in slightly altered, it's simply another story that could use the same title.