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It’s not always the one who strikes

I’m Noah, in juvenile prison.

I was all over the newspapers with titles ranging from “Young Noah killed his own mother with cooking knife” to “mentally ill thirteen years old murdered his mother”

Of course, until this day I despise being called a killer or murderer. Sure, I helped mom take her last breath but I wasn’t the one who killed her.

I’ve constantly said this and I will stand by my statement for as long as I live; It is not always the one who strikes that’s the killer.

She was already dead.

You see, I’ve been interviewed dozens of times, I’ve been seen by doctors and beaten by policemen. In court, every word I’ve said was manipulated by journalists. Whatever I’ve done to my mother was altered so many times by the mouths of others that I lost a sense of what was real. Hence, me writing this down in hopes a man of truth will come to me and set my story straight.

I don’t ask to be set free. I don’t expect it nor do I encourage it.

Here it is, the truth:

My father killed mother long before I slit her throat.

He was a drunk, and I blame my birth for it. It made things complicated and he sought to gin to help uncomplicate his situation. It’s what he assumed. But no, it’s only gotten worse; for mother mostly. His hands never really left her face just as much as his lips never touched hers, but infamously devoured others.

Our house was rather minuscule but it was plenty of space for her to fall into. I could promise you that there is no inch on the floor that mother didn’t fall into after his strikes.

Surprisingly, he never lay a finger on me. I was the boy, the man. So, he made sure I was somehow cared for. He died pathetically by being run over by a garbage truck. I thought mom would be thrilled and free, but it’s been so many years where she has been miserable and scared she sort of depended on it. She’d wake up screaming at night and I’d pretend to be deaf. At days after I come from school I find her wearing jackets in the middle of summer. When she’d cook her sleeves would slowly slip up and I’d see her wrists burn the shape of the end of a knife.

You understand now how I say she was already deceased?

I can’t be called a psychopath because I had that sort of empathy. I wanted mom dead to relieve her. And so, while she was cooking me stew and added salty tears, I picked up a knife, pecked the edge of her neck and promptly slit her throat.

I was thirteen.

I thought it was like slicing open fish but it was slightly thicker. I also thought it would be a fast death but don’t think anything of pain was fast for mom anyway.

So, that’s how it went and I have no regret towards it. It was satisfactory.

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