The Lizard and the Fly by Robert Edward Levin

Even as a kid, John Henry Stevens was a nasty son-of-a-bitch.  Maybe it was because his old man walked out on him when he was three years old - maybe it was because his mother confined him to the crawl-space basement for hours on end - maybe it was because John Henry got so used to the crawl-space basement he often slept there, heading upstairs only when his mother was in the mood for a little bout of sexual abuse - maybe it was because John Henry’s mother died when he was ten years old and he was forced to live with his aunt and uncle - maybe it was because his aunt and uncle often treated him like the family dog, feeding him table scraps after the rest of the family had finished eating, forcing him to go to the bathroom outdoors - maybe it was because he was blamed for every little thing that went wrong at home, be it the missing dog (alright, so maybe John Henry played a part in the dog’s demise), or the funny tasting lemonade (okay, so he did, but only because the colors were so close together, he didn't think anyone would notice) - maybe it was because he was thirteen years old when he got his first piece of ass  but had to use a knife to get it - maybe it was because he enjoyed sticking pins in his tongue just to see if he could withstand the pain - maybe it was because after a while he could - maybe it was because all he ever got for Christmas was a kick in the ass and a crack across the face - maybe it was because he had an IQ of 172 - maybe it was because the word deplorable would not begin to describe his family life - maybe it was because John Henry never felt loved as a child - maybe it was because he was so drunk with hatred he didn’t care about love anyway - or maybe, just maybe, it was because John Henry Stevens was flat-out insane.  

Whatever the reason(s), it was in the middle of a hot and sticky July 4th afternoon when John Henry Stevens killed his aunt and uncle and hit the road.  He was eighteen years old at the time.