When I was fourteen, I decided that I wanted to kill my mother.
By the time I was fifteen, I knew how I would do it. Poison was obviously the best way to go. Do you know how many dangerous liquids we keep in our homes? Bleach, washing up liquid and all sorts, just waiting to be used.
I never really thought much about how I’d get away with it exactly; I just presumed that people would think it was an accident. Everyone loves my mum and, on the whole, I’m a fairly innocent character. Even if I did get caught, I always figured that I’d be facing juvie at worst. Rachel in the year above went to juvie (she always liked fire too much), I know because she got held back a year and we sat next to each other in chemistry; she seemed okay.
I didn’t expect to end up here, but I’ll get to that later.
I always saw sixteen as something of a golden age. It was the age when all the girls in the movies were supposed to blossom into beautiful young ladies and be swept off their feet by their own personal, teenage prince charming. So I decided that, as a birthday present to myself, I’d kill her then. I knew that nobody else was going to do it for me. They all bought the loving, normal front that she put up. It was only me who saw through the façade.
I’m eighteen now. I know things that I didn’t know then, but this is the story of what happened between 2009-2011.