I have not yet felt remorse for killing you. I did not feel it when I saw the shock on my mother’s face after I told her what I had done, nor when I stood and watched your family members as they mourned their loss. I certainly did not feel it when I twisted my knife out of your body, listening to the satisfying squelch as I pulled my blade out of your gooey, red-stained flesh.
I understand that we were once friends; I have a remarkable memory. We first met on my third birthday, when my mother introduced us. There was an immediate connection between us that was unlike anything I had ever felt before. I knew, without a doubt, that we would form a lasting, even adamantine bond. Of course, I was right, but I need not remind you. We were inseparable. You were there from my first day of Kindergarten to my twelfth grade graduation ceremony, and for all of the uncomfortable pimples and voice cracks in between. During the most challenging part of my life, you served as my support; you were my rock.
Our relationship seemed unbreakable at first, but things changed when I started university. I met new people, including Brianna. While you and I never had much in common, Brianna and I shared all of the same interests. It was like we were two halves of a whole, and when we were together, we acted as one. When I met her, I experienced the same connectedness as I did when we first met, but magnified ten times over. I knew that this relationship was something real, and something serious.
Every mistake that I ever made with you, I was careful to correct with Brianna. I did not want her to know any of the tribulations that our relationship faced, so I avoided them outright. Before long, we were closer than you and I had ever been - or could ever be. I was willing to cut you out of my life completely, but you were insistent upon staying. You left me with no choice. You would not go willingly, so I was forced to extract you from my life - and life itself.
So with a lump in my throat and hardened resolve in my chest, I faced you one last time. As I stepped closer, a single, solitary tear streamed down my cheek; not out of sadness, but remembrance. Despite my best efforts, I had been unable to completely suppress the sentiments I felt when I looked at you. Nevertheless, I knew what I had to do. I picked up the jar of jam perched so innocuously on the kitchen counter and flung it in the trash, listening intently as the glass reverberated against the plastic bin. I glanced back at the counter where the bread and peanut butter sat, untouched. An admittedly sinister smile spread across my face as I walked towards the fruit bowl and took a banana. “Oh, Brianna…” I whispered. “Sweet, sweet, Brianna. Peanut butter and banana. Peanut butter and Brianna…” At last, I had admitted the truth: peanut butter and banana sandwiches are far superior to peanut butter and jam. Unfortunately Jan, you were the lesser opponent. Please remember that what I did was for the benefit of humanity.