You may be wondering how I killed my little brother David. As I look back I can remember that day. At 6 years old children children are supposed to play, and explore the world among them. Instead, when my neighborhood friends were outside playing on the street I was locked in my room. I watched the children’s mothers bring their kids popsticles on a hot day, when my mom only brought me stale bread. Outside my window I would hear my mother talking to the neighbor about how adorable David was as she neglected the fact that she had another daughter. I don’t even know if the neighborhood knew that I existed until David died.

One day I found my fathers pellet gun. I took it to my room. I saw my mother outside, holding David and my sudden instinct was to shoot the gun. I didn’t hit anyone, but my mother droped David. He landed on his head. And till this day my mother blames his death on me. It’s not my fault she had a loose grip…