Why?

“What have I done, what have I done?” I whisper to myself over and over again. Becky is lying there, in a pool of blood. Dead? Maybe. I rush over to see if she’s still breathing, and she is. Oh, thank you, Jesus! I think her heart is barely beating, so I take out the knife from her back, flip her over, and start doing chest compressions. Five minutes ago, me and Becky were chatting and we were best friends. Or at least, she thought we were best friends. I’m going crazy and I have been for the past five years, I tell myself and as soon as I do, I know it’s true. I was mad at Becky, but I know that I should never have tried to kill her! I was mad five minutes ago because of what she said about my son. She said he needed to go to a madhouse! says the illogical part of my brain. But you still should not have murdered her, says the small part of my brain that is still logical. I know my son is not good at learning things or interacting with people, but he is not insane. I can hear her breathing, so I pick up my phone and call 911. I call for an ambulance first, then the police. I know that the police will ask some questions, and I know that I have to confess. I feel the sobs start to shake my body, and I give into them. I reach for the darkness and I feel myself being pulled in.

When I wake up, I am in an ambulance next to Becky. “Is she alright?” I ask. “Not exactly,” says the paramedic. Before she can say anything else, I tell her, “I tried to murder Becky.” I say it loud and clear so she can process what I just said. She puts her hand on her mouth, but I know it is a gaping O. “Is that why you called the police, honey?” She asks calmly, her hand only shaking a tiny bit. “Yes,” I respond, my head falling to my chest. She whispers something to the other paramedic, and he moves my bed as far away from Becky as possible. He looks for something, and when he pulls it out, they are restraints. Just like in movies with insane people. To make sure they don’t hurt themselves or others. I gasp, and plead, saying, “Please. I’ll be good. I can control myself.” He whispers with the female paramedic some more and he nods. “Thank you so much,” I whisper to him. The words I repeat until I leave the hospital are: I’ll be good. I can control myself.

When I leave the hospital, I walk out and expect to see a car for insane people. Instead, I see a police car. You should’ve seen it coming, I tell myself. A policeman walks out and grabs me by the shoulders. I go quietly, without protesting that I’m innocent. Because I’m not. And I know that. He pushes me into the car roughly, and I feel a sharp pain in my back. I know I can’t cry out, not after what I did to Becky. He locks my door and I feel a different type of sadness than what I felt earlier. It is somewhere in between self-pity and guilt, and it makes my chest feel heavy. During the long, silent ride to the police station, I have this feeling. I don’t cry and I don’t think. I just exist. It feels right. Like my punishment. 

Once we get to the police station, the policeman who drove me there guides me to an interrogation room. Thankfully, it is a female police. Her first question is, “Did you try to kill Becky?” That feeling comes back in full force. “Yes,” I answer quietly. “Why did you try to kill Becky?” she asks. “I was mad at her,” I respond. “Did you have a reason to be mad at Becky?” she asks, a little more coldly. Then, it hits me. I realize who it is. Becky’s niece! I think. “Yes. I did. And before you say anything, I am sorry,” I say. “I believe you. Why else would you call the police as well?” says the police officer, “Oh, and sorry, I meant to ask: What was your reason to be mad at her?” I shudder with anger and hate for Becky. “I was mad at her,” I say through clenched teeth, “because she said that my son needed to go to a madhouse,” I say angrily, trying not to lunge at her. “You know that the punishment for attempted murder is twenty years in prison or a fine of $1,000 and two and a half years in prison,” says my interrogator. “I can barely pay for all my son’s different operations, so I guess it’ll be twenty years for me,” I say with a mix of sadness and anger. Why did you do this?! I ask myself in rage. How will I be able to make any money for my son?! “Ugh!” I say aloud. “Are you okay?” says the police officer, startled by my outburst. “Is there any way I can get somebody to help me pay my son’s medical bills?” I ask desperately. “Not that I know of. Would you like a trial, and if so, would you like to plead guilty or not guilty?” says my interrogator. I am shocked. I am guilty. How would I not be?! “I do not want a trial,” I say. Now the interrogator is shocked, saying, “Why not?!” I shrug. I know I’m insane and it is better to keep me away from society. “Well, since you just got out of the hospital, and you're an old friend of Aunt Becky, I can shorten your incarceration to about fifteen, maybe even ten, years,” she says, and I realize how long I could be in jail. I could be fifty-six to forty-six years old. The feeling I first felt inside the police car stays with me for the rest of my long life on Earth.