The First Kill

I don't recall much about my school days. I do know that high school was when all my

killings began.

On my first day of primary school, my grandmother was the one to wake me up. She told

me that my uniform was laid out on the top of the dresser.

Brown trousers, a white button up (long sleeves for cold months and shorter sleeves for

the warmer ones), and a brown blazer with the school name and logo embroidered on the

left breast. The boys uniform shoes were black polished oxfords. Girls either wore brown

loafers or simple grey patent leather flats.

I was six years old the year I began school, so I can say I was more than capable of

dressing myself. I had difficulty buttoning my shirt. I misplaced the button and thus the

whole shirt was in disarray.

I enter the kitchen where my grandmother is feeding Dolores little bits of toast after

dipping them in jelly. She glanced at me and sighed. "Do you not know how to button a

shirt?" She asked, pushing her chair back from the table.

I look down at my shoes. Her eyes follow my gaze and she huffs. "Wally, a six year old boy

who can't tie his own shoe?" She mocked.

What I said about murder not being committed until I reached secondary school was not

the complete truth. You see, secondary school was when I became active as what you and

society would call a serial murderer.

Grandmother's mockery was enough to make me push her down a flight of stairs.

She didn't die right then. Some would argue I didn't kill her, but what I'll say next will

surely change your minds.

She broke her hip, went to the hospital, caught tuberculosis from a nurse who was exposed

to it and died. She didn't die from her injuries. Indirectly, I killed her. Had I not pushed

her down the stairs, she would not have been hospitalized. She would not have come into

contact with a nurse who was treating patients with illnesses and she would not have

caught tuberculosis.

So therefore, I killed my grandmother.

Mother was very distraught.

After I pushed her, I heard two crunches. One from her hip as the bone cracked

internally and shifted to the left, and the other from her head when she hit her head.

She was knocked unconscious.

I went to my room and played jacks. I stopped what I was doing when I heard my mother

shriek. She had picked up Dolly on her way home from work and she was on Mother's hip.

"Wallace, go phone for an ambulance!" She called out to me. I was educated about what to

do in emergency situations. 999 for an ambulance and 111 for non-emergency. I knew I had

to provide an address. I didn't know the address so I told them I lived in a neighborhood

right by a daycare center and a pharmacy.

I phoned 111 of course. That old white haired spinster hag could sit there and suffer

silently. Hopefully she knew not to ridicule me ever again. Not that she was given another

chance to.

I was dragged to her funeral while Dolores was dropped off at the daycare center. Two of

my aunts, Margaret and Anita came to pay their respects and mourn the loss of their

mother.

My aunt Margaret came to me and ruffled my hair. "Why don't you come with me and say

goodbye to your grandmother Paulina?" She held out her hand to me.

Tentatively, I reach out and grab it. I followed close behind her and towards the pearly

pink box my grandmother was supposedly lying in.

Margaret lifted me up and settled me on her hip. I looked down at my grandmother's

resting corpse.

I smirk. Her face seemed to have lost a few pounds. She looked sullen and dry. Her cheeks

were hollow and her eyes practically sank into her skull. Honestly, she looked like she

hadn't slept or ate anything in years.

She had rouge on her cheeks. A pathetic unsuccessful attempt to make her look lively. Her

lips had a pale pink tint and I could see the flesh colored stitches from between her lips.

Then something hit me. A strong perfume-like scent mixed with something awfully putrid.

The bad smell was faint, but it was there.

"Put me down. She stinks like mad." I told my aunt, covering my nose. She stiffens but

compiles.

I decided to wander around. I maneuver around countless people who look a bit like my

mother or me in some small ways, tall people, women in sharp shoes, and I see my aunts and

my mother huddled together.

I hide behind a corner and strain my ears to listen. "I am afraid there is something wrong

with Wally." I hear my mother say. "Why do you say that Rose?" Anita gasps, placing a

white gloved hand on my mother's shoulder.

"When he was two, he stomped on the shells of three turtles until they died. He showed no

remorse for it!" Anita and Margaret gasp.

Why would I show remorse when one of them bit me?

"He burned the house down a year ago. The firemen found the source. One of Dolly's toys

was put in her crib. We had the fireplace lit. He stuck her toy in the fire and threw it back

in the crib with Dolly inside!"

"And mom didn't just die of tuberculosis. I came home on Wally's first day of

kindergarten and saw her lying unconscious at the bottom of the stairs. There was blood

pooling around her head. I think Wally pushed her. He called for the non-emergency and

not for an ambulance."

Shocked gasps come from both aunts and I've already heard enough. I want to stop them

from discussing my 'wrongdoings' any further. I climb on the refreshments table and

knock over the crystal pitcher. It crashes to the floor and breaks, and I tumble along with

it.

I end up getting a few cuts from the broken shards. I feign tears and alert a few

relatives. They rush to my aid and I catch sight of Mother. She had her arms crossed as

she studied me.

On the drive home, mother is mostly silent.

"Wally." She says. My head snaps up. "Yes, mother?" I reply, my voice sounding sweet.

"Wally," she says again. "Did you push your grandmother down the stairs?" She asks. My

blood runs cold and I freeze in my seat.

Her knuckles are white and are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. "Answer me,

dammit!" I jolt. Mother never yells. Mother never curses. Mother is angry.

I hung my head. "Yes, I did. But she made a fool out of me because I couldn't button my

shirt right or tie my shoes. I didn't mean for her to die, honest!" I defend myself.

Mother pulls over. She takes a few ragged breaths before turning around.

I flatten my back against the seat. Why do women look absolutely terrifying when they

cry? Her mascara is streaked and running down her face, the whites of her eyes are red

and they're blown wide. Her lipstick is ruined, her nose and cheeks pink in anger or

sadness.

"Wallace, one more problem with you and I'll be sending you away for a long time." Her

voice is level. Calm even. But that calmness in her voice is just a façade. What her voice hid

was a screaming conscience.

One thing I know for sure, I don't want to be sent away. I tried to be good after that. I

really did. But being good is too hard.