What the hell do I do? Shit! Shit!
Darting from the room, I started down the hall and was met by the sleepy eyes of my little sister. “What was that noise?” she asked, rubbing tiny fists against her sockets.
Walking her into the living room, I wrapped her small frame in the quilt that was laid across the back of our couch. “Shh, it's going to be alright. We have to go get help, mommy is hurt.”
Laying her head on my shoulder, I carried her out of the house and never looked back.
I was eighteen when I killed my father.
I was eighteen when I lost my mother.
And I was eighteen when I became a parent.