It's My Fault

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They died because of me, I know it. It’s all my fault. They asked me to do something and I didn’t do it. Now they’re dead. It should have been me.

It’s been two weeks since my parents’ murder. I’ve been trying to remember what happened for the police, but my mind can’t conjure up what happened. The memories are distorted by fear. I know my parents are dead and I know that somehow I escaped. I think the police might think I did it because I don’t have any details and no one managed to see the killer enter or exit the house. I didn’t do it though. I swear.

Here’s what I remember. It was right after dinner and my parents asked me to clean the plates and put the food away. I begged them to do it that night – I had a lot of homework and an early morning, so I had to get to sleep before my usual time. They agreed.
About ten minutes later, I heard my dad scream. It’s short. It had been cut off. I ran downstairs and saw him on the floor, knife in back. I didn’t even see his killer. A short moment later, I heard my mom and I knew I was next. So I ran and I didn’t even think twice about helping my parents. My survival instinct kicked in.

I don’t even think the killer knew I was there. All I know is that if I had cleaned the dishes and let my parents go to bed like they asked, I’d be dead and they’d be alive. But I was selfish and now they’re dead. It’s all my fault.





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