Diary of an Accidental Killer - PART 1

I am going to relate to you my story. It is going to be simple and as short and concise as I can possibly make it. I do not want my tale to be a somnolent affair for its reader, as autobiographical stories often are to everyone except those whose story it is. Nor will I attempt to make it an aphrodisiac for a bored person on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I will state fact and try my very best to not stray towards conjecture, because I have finally realized that the past is the past and no manner of post-mortem appraisal will change what happened.
I was born in a barn on some day of some month. My mother had decided to deliver me in said barn to avoid being prosecuted by the allegorical scarlet letter that her little’s town scrutiny would doubtless brand her with. So I was born in a barn and I am sure my mother would’ve left me there, if it weren’t for the stark red hair that I bore, which was unmistakable proof of whose child I was, given my mother was well-known for her bright red locks. The other thing my mother was infamous for is no mystery.
All my childhood from as far back as I can recall, my mother treated me with resentment. She never let me forget even for a day that I was an unwanted weed from an unwanted seed planted by a farmer she could not name. Looking back, I wish I could’ve pointed out that she had certainly not objected to the plowing, so why now the result of it? But I did not speak. I never spoke. There was a time she thought I was perhaps mute because I just never spoke at all. Not that she would’ve cared if I was. She was not much for listening, more for berating to be honest.
My mother did not even bother to name me. My name was yet another inconvenience for her and so she always referred to me as “Child”. And that is how I came to be named thus. Child Nothing of No one. She did not even deign to let me share her last name, as if I would contaminate it more than her deed already had.
During my schooling years, I was shunned and ostracized. Or perhaps I had shunned and ostracized myself. Out of habit, I had expected to be treated the same way in school as I was at home and because of this, I put up a very real barrier of self-loathing between me and the children, one that no one was inclined to break down. Perhaps I can say that my treatment at school was better than it was at home, because at least at school I was treated like I was invisible, nonexistent. I was as pointless as a character in a movie that has no lines and appears on the extreme right of the screen for 3 seconds cleaning glasses at a bar. And this is how I finished school, with a degree to my name but nothing else.
Now comes the real story. It happened on a cold winter’s day at 15 past midnight. There was a sullied knife in my hand, blood on the floor and the smell of a dying woman I had convinced myself that I was indifferent toward so I wouldn’t ever have to spend the energy it would take to hate her. But the guise didn’t work, for I DID hate her. I hated every fiber of her being. And as I stood over her, watching impassively as the life ebbed out of her through the large gash across the left side of her chest, I had the satisfaction of seeing for the first time an emotion other than loathing for me in her eyes. What I saw was not much substantially better though, because in her eyes and the hiccupping gasps erupting from her throat was the desperation and plea that every villain has as they are executed and praying for a reprieve. A few moments later she was gone and was nothing more than a slump of flesh that was as meaningless to me in death as it was in life. I felt nothing. My heart beat steadily as I surveyed what had happened with an eerily clear and unclouded head.
Now let me outline for you the events that led up to this happening. I would not wish for you to judge me and so I must clarify my motives and then perhaps your horror will give way to reluctant understanding. Or perhaps I shall do so later, after I’ve had the stale bread and polluted water that this glorified prison in the guise of a “Recreational Facility for troubled juveniles” thinks is the only thing I deserve. I hope by the time you’ve read the rest of my story, you won’t believe the same.