Thou shalt not kill.

I read lots of books and watched Murder She Wrote and I figured it out: I could do it with the iron skillet when he’s asleep on the couch after dinner. I imagine all the ways it could go—a human scarecrow—his eyes flashing open to break my wrist as I bring down the sledge—or a cracked skull and a body as big as a bear. Still, there is a child buried in the water, and nothing has changed except me. Now I see his face when I look in the mirror. I’ve memorized Hamlet’s soliloquy, but the lines are stuck in a loop, and I never can get to the end. I crawled out onto the roof but couldn’t throw my other leg over the edge. That’s when I knew—there’s no way out of the world alive—and being alive doesn’t mean anything.

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