I didn’t know what else to do. He hurt me and broke my heart again and again and again. It started with a mild push, but as we all know, push turns to shove out of nowhere. He was going to kill me. He wouldn’t let off my throat. I pulled a knife from the rack and stabbed him before my vision went back. I woke up and his dead body was draped over mine. I screamed and panicked and knew I would go to jail.

I couldn’t.

I took his body and buried it in the woods. I don’t want to hear any of that stereotypical BS. A body in the water would decompose and float to the top. I would be found out. I did what I had too.

I told people he was skipping town for being found with drugs but he was dead.

It ate away at me for years. I visited his grace every time I could. I regret killing him but it was absolutely and only in self defense.

One day I snapped. I couldn’t keep this secret anymore. I marched my way into the police headquarters and told the front desk man “I killed someone.”

And as the cuffs snapped on my wrist, waiting to go to the interrogation room, I was glad I told someone…