I was nine when I killed for the first time. I stabbed a man in the chest with a kitchen knife while he slept. An hour earlier he’d beaten my mother unconscious. I made a full confession, but my mother made a counter-one and was convicted. I was sent to my grandparents. Fifteen months later my grandfather died of asphyxiation. It seems that a belt can be used for more than whipping young boys. I then disappeared into the night. The third man I killed thought he could sell my body to a rich man. I’ve killed five times since.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.