Thursday, June 22, 2017

When I Tried to Murder my Father

During my Standard  9 year, I met boy by the name of Patrick.  He was an adopted boy, spoiled, smoked grass, but was beautiful to look at with a gentle soul.  I fell head over heals in love with him. 

My father hated him and when I had asked if he could come to the sea with us one weekend, my father got drunk, this being one of only two times I had seen him drunk.  He tried to beat Patrick up.   But Patrick was not drunk and he moved away so quickly that my father fell on the ground on his back.  All my pent up rage surfaced and without thinking I jumped onto my father’s chest and put my hands around his neck and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed with all my might. I knew then that I could kill him and I wanted him dead.  His eyes had rolled back and there was bleeding splotches in his eyes and I was just determined to make him die.  I wanted him dead…deader than dead.   My mother came out and tried to stop me from throttling him.   Patrick tried to stop me but my hands were like vice grips.   For all the things he had done to us, I wanted him dead.  And just as suddenly I let his throat go and watched as he struggled to get his breath back.  I felt nothing for him – he had become a nobody in my life who did not deserve to live.   The fact that he wanted to beat the only boy I loved up, galvanized me that day.  The spirits and guardian angels were around me and helped me to stop killing him.  I got up with disgust.  Die you bastard, I thought to myself.  Die!!!  I very nearly committed murder that evening.  
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