She grabbed my hair and with all her strength threw me on the floor, pulling me to the front door. And started beating me with her hand in gypsum. That’s how I remember which hand was broken. By the way, it was painful as never before. Roughly twenty times in the head and way more in the stomach, hands, legs. She repeated something like “For what we spend our money? You know how much money you waste. Bitch. Asshole. Slut. (Slut in 8 years old).”
Then she was hitting the door with me. And then threw me out of the apartment. The door closed. I thought my dad was at work and when he came back he would open the door. But he actually was at home. He heard everything and didn’t help me out. I was able to get home in the morning when he went to work. And instead of daddy’s love, I got a big smack in the face. Crying I got in and, lucky me, mommy was sleeping. I packed a backpack, changed my clothes, and went to school. WIthout breakfast because there was no food at home.
I don’t want to get into details of my “poor” childhood. I honestly feel like I had a lot of reasons to kill her. This and previous stories are just the most highlighted. Maybe tearful at some point. And I don’t want you guys to feel compassionate towards me but I doubt you are going to do that.
Anyways, situations like the previous, perhaps less severe, have happened on a daily basis. I was so sick of all of it. I was a child. I wanted happiness and childhood, and my parents’ love. Why does a mommy, who gave birth, didn’t sleep, didn’t get an abortion, want her own child to suffer that much? And it is not just about me. Over millions and millions of children get treatment like mine. Worse or a bit better. One question still is not answered “ Why then did you keep kids if you hate them so much? It’s stupid.”
The second huge TOP-reason why I killed my mother is below. But I want to point out the fact that everyone is different, and different situations are perceived differently. So you maybe won’t agree with me but it’s okay. That’s all.
It happened in the summer of 2017 when I was 16. Those days were literal hell. My mom, my dad, sister, and two brothers were at home. Agnes was 7, Steve was 17, and Elon was 36. Elon decided to spend a summer with us but rather he didn’t. I didn’t and still don’t love any of them. I’ll tell you why in the next chapters. Right now it’s all about the woman that against my wish pushed me out of her body. Let’s be gentlemen.