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silent murder


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My name is Joe, and I am the town’s lumberjack and carpenter. I live alone in my small, two bedroom house along with my golden retriever for company. I’m not really a people person, that’s probably why some people of this old broken down town don’t like me, but I don’t work to please people, I work to provide for myself and my needs. I really don’t know exactly when I started developing bad attitudes, but from what I can remember, living with my mom probably had been a large impact on my behavior and character development.

Growing up, as you can tell is not something that’s easily done because it requires learning lessons. One horrible lesson would have to be when my mom one day was beating on my older sister, started beating her with a broom stick repeatedly and got one good lick in the face, and the next thing you know there’s a waterfall of blood streaming down my sisters lips and chin, splattering all over her t-shirt. I was angry at the time, because I remember how small we were, and I remember my sisters Pocahontas shirt was covered in blood, we had thrown it in the trash so that no one would find out what happened. When situations like this happen throughout someone’s life, how do you expect for that person to be normal.

When people see me looking at them in a disturbing way, they see it as an insult or an invitation to argue. Some people are intimidated by me because of my size, a built man over 6 feet. They see me towering over them as I help them unpleasantly with their materials. They can sense my mood just by looking at my ferocious face, mixed with all the terrible moods possible. After my parents started living together, there was violence and drug usage more than ever. While my mom was out getting drunk, my sisters isolated themselves in their cave of a room, they had covered the windows with thick quilted fabric, pinned with nails at each coroner of the ends of the window.

It was always completely dark in that room, all you could see was the desktop that showed on the screen, different graphics and trippy illusions used when you were on drugs. My sisters weren’t smoking weed any more, they were taking harsh pills and other drugs I didn’t know about, during this time I was so overwhelmed in my life because I had a drunk for a mom, my sisters were up in their room getting high all days of the week, and my dad was stressing me out because at that time he was really strict, and saw himself as God. In my family, I didn’t know where I fit in, even though I had a family I still felt so lonely. Following In my sisters footsteps, I started smoking the first year of middle school, although the first time I tried it I was ten years old, but after that I didn’t touch it.

At school, there were 11 to 13 year olds selling and smoking weed, that’s how I came upon my first dealer. My parents used to give me lunch money, but instead I used it for my recreational use, it helped me cope with people in general. Not only did I have problems at home, I was also getting bullied at school because of my weight problem, I wasn’t only getting teased by kids at school but also at home, my sisters would call me names that scar me like a burn mark , and for that reason till this day I have low self-esteem and have no confidence in myself. Drugs weren’t helping though, they only made me worst. I started developing bad mood swings, I showed bad attitude towards my mom, only because I had lost respect towards her, and didn’t tolerate her belligerent drunk ways any longer.

I was in my bedroom when I came upon millions of ideas, ideas about murder. I already had a plan, everything had to go accordingly how exactly I planned it if not, let’s just say ill be in a lot of trouble. My mom was down stairs in the kitchen, she was probably talking to one of my aunts, going on about how bad of children we are. I looked around the coroner, and saw my mom sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of Jimador tequila. At that time I was 17, and I was already too fed up to control my rage and ager for this woman, she was mumbling who knows what, I didn’t know exactly why it angered me to hear her voice, something about her made me want to burst with rage, I couldnt even understand what she was saying but it upset me so much, I grabbed the electrical knife from where it was charging.

“But why are you confessing 15 years later, after you have most definitely gotten away with murder? Didn’t you ever feel guilty of killing the woman who gave birth to you?” The detectives looked at me like some kind of animal out in the wild, I was sitting across from them, dressed in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffed.



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