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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Moon__Madness on 2026-05-23 02:20:04+00:00.

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Have you ever hated someone?

I'm not talking about the petty 'hatred' of today; like being forced with to sit with your loud classmate or being jealous of the top achiever in your class. I'm talking about real hatred; the cold, deep unfeeling rage towards someone or something that is so strong you could watch them die right in front of you and you'll feel nothing but bitter satisfaction rather than horror that you watched someone die?

Because I did. When I was eight years old, my family moved in a small yet cozy town in Texas. It was almost perfect. Almost. If not for the neighbors that lived across the street.

Gertrude was the mother; a ghastly looking woman with sunken eyes on an skeletal face attached to a frail, spindly body. Who had four out-of-control kids, no husband, and was stuck squarely in a poverty-stricken life with a voice that could make a shrew jealous.

I remember thinking her existence was equivalent to a pimple; an hideous eyesore that brought nothing pain, whose only use was producing disgusting gunk that you had to wash away Yet something you were advise to just ignore. To "Leave alone."

As if that demented family ever left anyone alone.

As if two of her youngest kids weren't seen throwing stones at birds, cars or some other unfortunate thing to cross their line of sight.

As if her eldest daughter Paula wasn't seen in Mr. Wilson's house at age 15 "running errands."

As if her oldest son Connor wasn't seen slashing the tires of his teacher's car for failing him for the third time.

But unfortunately, likely due to Gertrude's poverty (or my parents never directly witnessing her children's incorrigible behavior), meant that we couldn't discuss them in an negative light.

"They don't need Halloween decorations, Gertrude could just stand outside and they'll win best decorated house."

My brother had joked one day at dinner, before my mom cut him off with a glare.

"Don't say that, poor Gertie is struggling, she's has enough of a hard life as it is. She doesn't need some brat to start insulting her."

Poor Gertie.

I did not say it, but I agreed with my brother. Even as an obedient kid; I would refuse to be present around Gertrude or her family despite being screamed at for being "disrespectful" thousands of times. There just something deeply wrong with them.

But shamefully, I had adopted my parent's naïve mindset of being a bystander, stupidly I believing that I was exempt from their cruelty due to not being a direct victim.

I was not only wrong, but I had paid heavily for it too.

When my ninth birthday rolled around, one of the happiest days in my young life. Not just because I was surrounded by cake, pizza, family and friends. But because it was my first day with her.

A small box was placed in my lap, and inside was a gray tabby kitten staring back at now nine year old me. A tiny little thing with eyes that had such a beautiful hue of green, instantly reminding me of the precious Jade stones, which became her name.

Jade.

We did everything together; she followed me to the bus for school, waited at the door for my return. She slept in my bed, sat by me while I did my homework even when she could barely keep her eyelids open.

Jade was not just my cat. She was my best friend, my soulmate, my sister trapped in a fuzzy little body.

I should have been more careful.

Then day, she wasn't in the house. I thought she had merely wandered off to watch the fishes in a nearby stream or play in our garden, as she did often during hot summer days. But she wasn't there either.

Then... I heard it.

Laughter. From behind a large brush, followed by hush voices and the sound of people running off. Prompted by a cautious curiosity, I went behind the tangled mass of plants to investigate the source of the sound.

I wish I could say it was Connor putting firecrackers in anthills again or his little brother John smashing snails under his boot.

But it wasn't.

What I found behind the bush was Jade; her body twisted and mangled beyond belief. Her beautiful fur coat muddy and wet from being stamped on. She had been beaten then drowned, her claws still full of dirt when she tried escaping.

I'm so sorry.

Clutching the body of my murdered cat I went to my parents crying and screaming. They were sympathetic, but it was clear that they didn't believe that it was the neighbor's kids were responsible.

"A coyote must have gotten to her, or a car must have struck her." They said while gently stroking my hair.

They were wrong, I knew her death wasn't an accident nor was the result of coyotes I never saw. It was Connor. He had killed my cat, my best friend and sister in the shape of a cat. He would never be punished, not by my parents or his wretched mother.

I overheard him laughing about it in the school the next day. Relishing in the fact he killed his nine year old neighbor's cat and boasting about more pets he had killed to his siblings, friends, anyone who would listen. Boasting the fact he were getting away with it. And he was because of their inaction.

I stewed in hate the following days. I fantasized about Connor or siblings being the one who was hit by cars or torn apart by coyotes. It was all typical talk of child; plotting to kill, harm but never actually going to do anything. Because what nine year old girl could do to kill a 13 year old boy, much less an entire family?

Nothing. Exactly nothing.

When the worst flash flood in my region hit town and I saw Gertrude's car struggling to surface from the local river. I did not call for help or tell anyone what I saw.

I did nothing.