“I didn’t mean to kill your father.” My mother would say. I didn’t believe it for a second. What I saw on the night of September 8th will forever be drilled in my mind. Murdered in cold blood. The whole living room smelled of copper. My mother stood above my father’s body, the knife gripped in her hands as though she wouldn’t ever let go of it. She did mean to do it. He was rich. That’s the whole reason she married him, after all. I was just a symbol of the love they never truly had. Look where her greed got her. It got her an orange jumpsuit and a life sentence. She did always hate the color orange. I found that rather funny. How silly she looked. She often preferred red or blue, the color of police lights. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps it was fate mocking her. I’d smile at the thought of that. She deserved this, after all. I took a moment and snapped back to reality. She was furious, clutching the phone in her hand as though it were her lifeline. The same cold, green eyes she had given that night still clear as day in her expression. I gave her a defiant smile before hanging up the phone. Her piercing fits of rage faded into the distance as she was escorted away. Every step away from her was like a slow transition from hell to heaven.

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