This is one story I’ve never told before. Not to anyone. I am embarrassed and ashamed about what happened that night, and I am afraid of what others would think about me if I told them. That is why I never told this story to anyone, not even my closest friends or family. I know that if I revealed this story to them, first because they know me so well, they wouldn’t even believe that it was true. Then after realizing that this was not just some story that I made up and I was being serious, I know that they would treat me differently. They would never be able to look at me the same way again. I knew that I would be judged and criticized for my actions, and that is why I kept this story to myself for such a long time.

But I don’t know how much longer I can keep this secret inside of me. The guilt is eating me alive and I know that for my own mental safety I am going to have to share it with someone soon. I have tried writing it down and then tossing it away into the fire, hoping that I could get rid of the memories and the guilt that they bring, burning them away, but it didn’t work. I know the only way that I will be able to relieve myself and get the guilt off my chest is to share it with people that I know I can trust because I can’t avoid the consequences for much longer. I am just going to have to face the criticism from others, which although I hate to admit it, I rightfully deserve.

After avoiding this moment for so many years, because I know that it is necessary to maintain my own mental health, I am now ready to share my story. Having reoccurring dreams and visions haunting me of that night, I can remember that night and events very clearly as if they just happened yesterday.

I was eleven years old, it was a cool night in early June, and school had just been let out a few days earlier. But while all of my friends were out enjoying the freedom of the first days of summer, I was left at home with a different problem. My aunt had been diagnosed with breast cancer almost a year before, and after going through all of the treatments she seemed to be getting better, but then in early April things started taking a turn for the worse. All of my family knew that she didn’t have much time left, but there was nothing that we could do; all we could do was support her and hope for the best.

I don’t know how my aunt was able to handle it so well. She was a very strong woman and remained positive throughout her entire experience. Even when she knew she was steadily getting worse and she didn’t have much time left, she looked at it as if God needed her in heaven, and it was her time to go. She was a fighter and didn’t want to go, but if he needed her, then she was ready.

It was the night of June 10 that she lost her battle with cancer. All of my family had been there at the hospital when it happened, and we all had our own ways of dealing with her death. My uncle was in a state of complete shock, and could do nothing but sit there and cry. My three cousins sat there with my uncle, all bawling, holding each other, finding it difficult to grasp that they would have continue on with their lives without their mother who had such a great impact on them. My grandfather, filling the image of a tough gut that never cries, sat in the corner with a furious look on his face looking for something that he could take his anger out on.

I on the other hand had a very different reaction than the rest of them. Of course I cried for a long time like any other eleven year old girl would, but then I had a feeling of great anger thrust upon me, which I probably got from my grandfather.

Having a difficult time accepting the actuality of my aunt’s death, I became angry that why did this happen to us? What did we do to deserve her death? I couldn’t find a logical answer to this, and still in a little bit of shock, I didn’t really know what I was doing, and to this day I still can’t believe what I did. I told my family that I was going to the bathroom and I would be right back, but instead I snuck into another patient’s room and disconnected them from an oxygen machine that was supporting them. I guess in order to compensate for the death of my aunt, I felt that it was justified that another family go through the same thing that we were going through with the death of a loved one. But the truth is that I wasn’t justified, and I am nothing but a murderer.

Since I didn’t get caught, nobody knew what I had done. But since the second that I realized what I had done, I have regretted it. I did it purely out of frustration at the moment, and I didn’t even think of their man’s family. He was young like my aunt, probably having children of his own, who I didn’t even think about. They didn’t deserve to have their father die just because I was upset about the death of my aunt.

This is why I never told this story to anyone. How could I expect people to view me the same when they knew I was a murderer? I know that I will now be judged based on that single action, but I deserve it. I regret what I have done, but there is nothing that I can do now to make up for it to his family. I just hope that by sharing this story it will help me, and eventually the guilt will stop haunting me.