by Morgan S., age 11
The way I miss her is, unimaginable, unforgettable, ugly almost. I don’t want to miss her, I want to forget her. After all, I killed her.
Then Mrs. Fennilton found me, crying about what I had done. She didn’t seem to understand me, so she called the cops.
They got there and I fell into their arms and pleaded guilty right there, after five minutes. I was cuffed and in the car without any questions.
They think that I did it out of greed. Some of them think it was hate. Others, jealousy. But they are all wrong. I did it for the money. Hit girl. There. I told you. I killed my best friend for two million dollars and a promise of connection with my parents.
I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t have. I told the court. Yes, how stupid of me, but I told the court. I told them who, how, where and why. I told them that it was Kelly’s boyfriend, James. The millionaire by blood. The psycho by mind. The demon by heart.
You may ask why I accepted. Why I killed Kelly. I need money, I’m broke. I need my parents, they’re dead. I need something to keep me going. A part-time job at McDonalds doesn’t help much.
Ten years, the jury said. Ten years in prison. I can hear it over and over in my head. Ten years. To me, that’s life. That’s eternity. To me that’s ten years of freaks stalking you, and cheap food being fed to you, ten years of Hell on Earth.
My sister is rich, rich as heck – well, was rich as heck. Not anymore. She gave it all to some charity. Who cares about them? I need that money. I’m broke. We’re broke. My two million isn’t enough to get me out. Not even close.
The jury added to the statement he’d made before. Chance of parole. That is good, right? I’ve seen the shows. Parole is when someone gets out but has to have someone check on them everyday. That’s good, right?
If parole is good, it’s all I’ve got. I don’t have Kelly, Mom or Dad. My sister, Jenna, bailed on me. “Useless rat,” she called me, “killer! That is all you are, a killer!”
I’m not the smartest person but I don’t think that’s good.
This is it. My first-class ticket to trouble. I’m dead now. Ten years. Possible chance of parole. I must be the first nineteen-year-old girl behind bars for ten whole years.
Maybe Jenna’s right. I must be a useless rat. A killer. A no-good troublemaker. Dead meat.
I‘ve lost my two million and all connection with James. I’ve lost all of my friends. My own boyfriend and a life that I loved. I will miss ten Christmases. Ten birthday parties. Ten years of my life. I never should have taken that offer, never.