When I was seventeen, I murdered a man – a boy, really. I took a football cleat and I thrust it into the back of his head. I did it because I wanted to and for no other reason. Someone was always going to be my first; why not him?
The next
day at school, I feigned shock and sorrow when they gathered us outside to
announce to the student population that one of our own had been taken. It was a
murder too brutal for any of his peers to be considered a subject so the police
turned their attention upwards.
A few weeks
after the boy’s death, they arrested the gym teacher, Mr. S. Apparently, Mr. S.
had been sleeping with one of his students and it was no large leap to assume
that he’d committed murder to keep his secrets hidden. I allowed Mr. S. to go
to prison for my crimes because he was already a bad man and I wanted to
continue killing.
Years
later, I ran into someone I went to school with – whom time remembers as
friends but I doubt we had spoken a word to one another. I learned from them
that shortly after his imprisonment, Mr. S. committed suicide upon learning
that the girl he’d raped was pregnant. That girl later gave birth to a baby boy
whom she gave up for adoption.
When I was thirty,
I ran into a young boy who looked familiar in a way I couldn’t place. Or
rather, he ran into me. Stained one of my favourite skirts and honestly, if he
were ten years older, I likely would have killed him for that. But I didn’t
because even I have my lines I will never cross. But he was sweet and he
apologized so how could I resist letting him live? His parents, on the other
hand, are a couple I deeply regret letting seeing the sunrise.
They were
rude and spoke in harsh words but any attempt at logic was met with force. We
were in too public a place, I couldn’t kill them, but I wanted to. I imagined slicing
their sternum open and peeling their skin like a banana until all their organs
fell out.
I followed
them for a few days before I followed them all the way to the airport and I
lost my chance.
Sometimes I
would wonder what happened to that little boy.
I was
thinking about those two stories this week. In all likelihood, they have
nothing to do with each other but there’s just the slightest chance that fate keeps
people together – keeps bringing them back into your circle even when you don’t
realize it.
Casey was
essentially a gift from my husband but she is one of the best things to ever
happen to me. And on top of that, she brought me closer to my sister and some
closure with my mother. I never knew how much I was missing her until I met
her.
Casey has a
brother. A half-brother, actually. They share a mother. He had left home before
she murdered their parents and had fleeting contact with him before that. She
saw him on the local news the other day. He was running a centre for at-risk
youth and was promoting his facility. At her insistence, we went to find him so
she could see if her big brother was really all right.
I should
blame her for keeping family secrets but I understand. Some stories are too
painful to mention.
He was over
the moon to find out his sister was alive. He’d heard of the death of their
parents but hadn’t bothered to attend the funeral for reasons he didn’t have to
mention. The two of them reconnected and while Casey has been omitting a lot of
the details, she seems lighter. Talking with her big brother, even if she can’t
be completely honest, has brought back an airiness to her walk.
I can’t
believe she’s seventeen, nearly eighteen, now. The same age I was when first
started. Her brother – Jonah – is about ten years older than her.
It’s
perfectly reasonable to assume that the three stories are a coincidence. The
child born in the scandal of my first kill. The young boy deserving of a better
life. The young man in front of me trying to change the world he grew up in.
They’re three completely different people.
But I can’t
help but wonder.
As always,
dear readers,
Stay Safe
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