Not everyone can say they’ve killed someone, but I can. The worst part is I have no recollection of any of it.
I’ve tried to think back to when it happened, to see if I could piece together a shred, a glimpse, a feeling or thought that would help me make sense of why I did what I did.
All I know is I was young and stupid, with no knowledge of the way the world works.
Some would say my actions were justified, that I did what I had to in order to survive, that it was self defense.
I know better.
I am a murderer, plain and simple. And nothing can change that.
I had no regard for anyone except myself, and because of that I took an innocent life. I can’t take back my actions.
There is no forgiveness for me no matter how much I have begged and pleaded for it. No amount of tearful repentance can ever make it right, and with each passing day I am reminded of what I did.
The emptiness and pain covers me like a veil, and I look around at others and their normal lives with the understanding theirs will never be like mine—full of guilt and regret.
Something will always be missing for me, and the fault is mine. I know that, and I have to live with it each passing year.
Today is my 25th birthday, a bittersweet moment because on days like today I feel the pain of my sin worst of all.
He approaches and embraces me, and I sob in his arms. He tells me she would be proud of the woman I’ve become, but isn’t that what fathers are supposed to say?
If only I could have known my mother, but I never will. She is dead because of me.