Murdering three

I was nine years old when I murdered my friend, Nessie.

She had died fast, her body thrashing on the ground. I stared, awestruck. The only sadness I’d felt was when it was over. Destructive me.

I was ten years old when I killed Finley. He died the same way as Nessie, his body thrashing on the ground, squirming. It was a really interesting sight. And I've kept it a secret, because I'm pretty sure no one would have liked to hear that I had killed two of my good friends.

Finley and Nessie are buried together. I didn’t have that much space for them, because they were... well, they were really big. I used a shovel to sink them into the ground, and then I prayed for them.

I did the same thing when I was eleven to my other friend, Feefee. She died the same way, and I began getting bored of killing. I went out to bury Feefee that day, but then, my dad my stepped outside.

“Athena, will you take out the gar-” he’d started to say, then stopped when he saw me. His eyes grew big.

I was dragging Feefee out onto the lawn. My dad’s eyes grew even larger, if that was even possible, and his eyebrows bended over so much that they crossed. He looked ready to choke, and I couldn’t blame him. Dragging something takes a lot of effort.

“What is that your carrying?” He asked, his eyes now bulging out of his head. He closed his eyes. “Oh God, tell me I’m dreaming, tell me this isn’t real.”

He told me I had a lot to explain. And I did, later. I told him about Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

In my life, I’ve murdered three.

Fish.

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