My name is Adam Roberts, a dashing middle-aged man hailing from the eternally captivating New York City. I am fortunate to have a wonderful wife, a son, and two beautiful daughters. The loves of my life are my wife Eve, our children Aquamarine and Pearl, and my son Jordan.
Due to circumstances, my family and I currently find ourselves in Mexico. Here, I run a substantial food business valued in the millions, alongside the wealth I accrued from my previous "work," which also amounts to millions. Despite my financial success, I lead a tranquil and dignified life. Many people are completely unaware of my affluence.
It may appear that I have everything, and that is indeed the case, but it hasn't always been this way. Beneath the surface of my seemingly perfect life lies a history filled with darkness. I'm about to share some truths about myself that many are unaware of. I assure you, it won't be a fairytale filled with enchantment; rather, it will contain violence and real horrors that might make the faint-hearted tremble.
Are you prepared?
When I was in nursery school, I lived with both my parents. While they weren't as wealthy as I am now, they were comfortably off. We had nice cars and employed a few servants to help manage our large house and daily tasks.
I shared a strong bond with my parents. During holidays, we would visit amusement parks and enjoy family time together. My dad often invited my friends' families to join us. Every night, my mom would read me bedtime stories without fail and she took me to school each morning in her car. They were present for all my school events and were well-known among the school committee.
My birthdays were always a highlight. Mom and Dad made sure to cancel their important appointments to be there for my celebrations, so I never felt unloved or overlooked. However, everything began to unravel after my eleventh birthday.
The atmosphere in our home flipped entirely. The joyous world I had known shattered into fragments. My parents started arguing over the smallest issues. Even the dropping of a spoon sparked a new fight. It was as if they were looking for every chance to tear each other down.
That wasn't even the worst part. Over time, their arguments escalated. Initially, they tried to keep their disputes hidden from me, fighting behind closed doors, poorly disguising this turmoil. But eventually, they no longer attempted to hide it; they argued openly as if it were a normal part of life.
They began to neglect my school activities. Whenever I approached my mother, she seemed distant, often requiring me to repeat my questions to receive a proper response. As for my father, he was seldom home. Whenever his phone rang, he would spring into action, answering it immediately, a look of horror on his face before rushing out in his car, returning home late.
On April 3, 2001, it began like any other day. The same monotonous routine: wake up, attend school, then sleep. However, something felt different that day. After school, I waited for about half an hour for my driver, who was usually punctual. He'd often scold me for being late.
Though I felt a slight unease, I brushed it off. I decided to take public transport home. What could possibly be wrong? Perhaps he was caught up with something; he's busy given my parents' constant travels.
Little did I know what awaited me at home.
Upon arriving, I sensed that something was off. The atmosphere had shifted, but I couldn't quite identify how. There were no signs of the usual bustling servants. The security guard was oddly absent as well. A peculiar metallic smell pervaded the air as I approached the front door.
Sweat trickled down my face, my skin felt clammy, and my throat suddenly grew parched. With each step, lifting my feet became increasingly burdensome. The scent thickened around me. I hesitated at the front door, terrified to see what lay beyond.
I placed my hand on the door handle and slowly opened it, keeping my eyes shut. The air from inside rushed past me. The overwhelming stench of blood caused me to drop to my knees, gasping for breath. Instinctively, I opened my eyes.
What I witnessed is forever imprinted in my memory. Pools of blood marred the beautiful marble floor. Bodies lay stacked like books on a shelf. Flies buzzed overhead as if they were at a dump. I covered my mouth with both hands, tears streaming down my face. My mind went blank.
My body reacted instinctively. I dashed around the house, checking every corner, but my parents were nowhere to be found. There was one room I hadn't searched—the master bedroom. I had been told never to enter without permission, but under these circumstances...
As I approached the bedroom, each step felt more challenging. It was as if the air fought against me, pulling me down, like a thousand needles pricking my skin. I loathed myself for being there that day.
When I finally opened the door, I found two bodies in a horrific state. Their stomachs had been ripped open, intestines spilling out. Other organs were displayed in a grotesque showcase on the ground. I wouldn't have recognized them as my parents if it weren't for their heads, severed and placed on a dish for viewing.
My heart sank. My eyes felt hollow and devoid of life. Just then, a tall man with tattoos covering his face emerged from behind. I hadn't heard him approach until he stood before me, laughing and pointing at my parents' lifeless bodies. I couldn't comprehend his words; he spoke in a language I didn't understand.
Yet, I knew his mockery was aimed at my parents. He must have been the one responsible for this atrocity; his clothes were drenched in blood. In that moment, only one thought consumed me—I wanted him dead.
I yearned to kill him and rip out his insides, but my body wouldn't listen. Fear paralyzed me. Suddenly, something struck me on the back of the head. Warm liquid streamed down my back before darkness enveloped me.