The first time my son killed was when he was just twelve. There was a light rain outside, so my family had to stay in. My son ran up to me announcing the news. “Mom, I just killed a fly!” I guess a fly got inside our house. I’ve never seen him this happy. It was weird that he’d be so excited over a fly, but I checked it out. My son proudly showed his hand with a fly on his palm. Strangely, he was holding a butcher’s knife in his left hand. It appeared to be carelessly picked apart, with its limbs and wings severed. I felt disgusted, but it was only a fly.
The second time my son killed was when he was thirteen. He had grown a lot taller and stronger since then. I’d sometimes see him go outside with his friends. I never know what he does out there. One night after he came home from hanging out with his friends, I saw him holding a bloodied oval-shaped thing that looked like mush. Blood was dripping on the floor as I saw him running, trying to be discrete. “Stop!” I yelled. “Show me what’s in your hand!” I did not get a response as he ran up the stairs in to his room, leaving a blood trail behind him. I headed up the stairs and persuaded him to let me in the room. After a bit of struggle, he let me in. “Now, show me what’s in your hand.” I spoke to in a soft gentle voice. He flipped his hand over, and showed me this rat, cut up into several pieces. Its eyeballs were poked out of there sockets and its organs were leaking out of a cut in his stomach. I vomited in my mouth. I don’t know why he’d do such a thing. After this, I left him in the room for the rest of the night. I didn’t feel like talking. It was a sleepless night for the both of us.
The third time my son killed is when he was fourteen. He was considerably big at this time, and I don’t think even I could beat him in a fight. The morning my son killed for a third time was a gentle morning, I had just woken up and walked to the kitchen to get my morning coffee. However, Charlie, the family dog did not greet me as he usually does. I thought that maybe he was just tired. We had a big day yesterday, so I was feeling the same. I usually walked Charlie in the morning, and I did not want to break routine. I decided to just go on a morning stroll by myself, and look for Charlie later. As I stepped through the front door, I knew something was off. I stepped off my front porch and began walking around the block. As I passed by the neighborhood park, I smelt a horrible stench. I went in to the park to search for that smell, so I could report it to the neighborhood watch. I believed I found the source of the smell as it was worse the closer I got to it. My gut worries were starting to act up, but I found the courage to look at the source, which I could sense behind a bush. It looked like an animal put into a blender. It was unrecognizable. My heart plummeted as I saw a little dog bone tag with the words “Charlie” imprinted on it. I stared in shock, and I began to tremble. It was no mistake, it was Charlie’s recognizable nametag. As much as I wanted to go home and pretend this was all a bad nightmare, I did not want to leave charlie. I called my husband to tell him about this and he was as shocked as I am. I called my son. No response. I called again. No response. Usually I don’t come to conclusions, but I know.
From the last incident, I grounded him until his sixteenth birthday. This was harsher than any other punishments I have ever given, but it was the right thing to do. He eventually confessed. He was not allowed to see his friends anymore, as they seemed like a bad influence. But I know he is still talking to them at school. I can not change that. I have noticed his bad attitude lately, and I have been wanting to cheer him up. After the last incident, he does not talk much to me. Honestly, I am kind of glad. I still cannot believe him for killing Charlie. On this day, I went to his room. “You’re gonna be ungrounded tomorrow son.” I spoke. “I still do not fully forgive you, but you are ungrounded.” He didn’t smile, but I thought I knew what he felt inside. I closed the door. It was late at night, so I decided to go to sleep next to my husband in the bedroom.
The fourth time my son killed was when he was sixteen.
The fifth time my son killed was when he was sixteen.