I kill people. A lot. Like, all the time.
But don’t get me wrong, folks! I don’t go around murdering people all willy-nilly. I kill people when they set out to hurt me or others. Physically or otherwise. For example, my first:
I had a friend named Brent in the third grade. Every day we would walk home together and every day a fifth grader named Charlie would wait for us with his friends. Sometimes we were lucky enough to get away on foot but more often than not we spent half an hour every afternoon being, for lack of a better word, tortured. Eat this mud. Eat a bug. Take off your clothes and run home. Jump from the highest branch or we beat you.
On the last day of the school year, Charlie came after us one last time. Pushed us into the lake. Said we had to stay underwater for ten minutes. It was impossible. He broke Brent’s arm. I lost a tooth.
Charlie left his window unlocked. Stupid. He slept with a teddy bear. Weak. I brought out my pocket knife and shoved a sock in his mouth. He died slowly.