At first, it doesn’t quite hit me—the extent of the damage that will come from our actions. For a moment, as I look out at the beautiful landscape, brightened by the moon’s warmth, with a cinematic rush of trees calmly bristling in the wind, it feels as if time has stood still. There’s a lightness in this experience that I haven’t felt before, like the air brushing softly behind my ears. I wonder, is this what peace feels like?

For so long, I’ve carried the weight of what we did on my shoulders. Paranoia always fabricates catastrophic realities, rooted in no truth. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be more carefree—disconnected, maybe—but definitely happier than I am now. Whenever I leave the house, I become hyper-aware of everything, both internally and externally. What was that sound? Why did he look at me like that? He must know the truth. I live with a guilty conscience.

My sister and I didn’t have a regular life. Our social worker told us that when we were young, we lived with our biological mother, but she overdosed while caring for us. I can’t say I remember that moment—maybe I blocked it out for good—and the strangest part was that we went to the zoo afterward while they looked for a home for us. It’s no wonder that, as I grew older, I developed a deep sense of disgust, evidenced by my heart racing and an overwhelming need to escape from the fear of danger. Some might call it anxiety, but that word has never fully captured my experience.

After moving from home to home, year after year, with an assortment of characters—from Sally and Don, who looked inbred, to the cool Jake, who was clearly too young to be a foster parent—I’ve seen it all. If I’m honest, I liked Jake’s house the most because, for once, we had the freedom to do as we pleased. But that freedom also led to neglect. These experiences bonded my sister and me as we grew up and faced all sorts of obstacles in school. I consider myself her protector, and I think she’d say the same. She’s much wiser than I am. Where I am reactive, she is responsive, and that’s why we get along so well.

Everything came to a head recently when we were moved in with Paul. Paul was a deceptive man. To our social worker and those around him, he was a knight in shining armor. But behind closed doors, he was a sexual predator, forcing us to use the bodies we barely understood for his own sick pleasure. Knowing there were no other homes for us, and when we told our social worker, instead of getting out, we were sent to therapy because they believed we were lying about such an honest and good Christian man. In their eyes, he could do no harm.

It got to the point where my rage built up like a storm, and one night I awoke in a fury. I slowly walked into the kitchen and grabbed a rather dull knife. Without a second thought, I snuck into his room while he lay on his back, mouth open, and I began to stab him over and over again. My sister came running in, and in that moment, she grabbed me, blood splattered across my face, and said, “We need to get out of here now.” The screams must have been heard in our quiet suburban neighborhood, waking our neighbors. So we ran. And we kept running, and running.

Now, as we reach the peak of the cliff, we know there’s no going back. With a single, knowing glance, we both understand that the only way to be free from this hell is to jump and end the misery that has plagued us for so long. As the ground beneath us grows closer, I look to my sister, hold her tight, and we smile and laugh. We’re finally free.