had the courage to tell him.
        Â
This isnât the first time Iâve been guilty of killing something.
I killed the pet mouse Julie gave me for my fourteenth birthday.
I forgot to feed it and it died. I was a teenage murderer! Or, if it wasnât on purpose, is it manslaughter? Or should I say
mouse
-slaughter. No, it was outright murder, no matter how I looked at it.
It wouldnât have happened if heâd gotten a bit of cheese every once in a while. But no, I was too busy to think of that. How could I have been so cruel and selfish?
For days after he died, every time I closed my eyes I imagined that little mouse crawling around desperate for foodâ¦every day getting weaker and weaker. Oh, how he must have suffered! What a slow and painful death it must have beenâ¦and it was going on right in my bedroom! He was dying right before my very eyesâif Iâd bothered to look!
I decided I should be made to suffer the way he suffered. I took my punishment into my own hands. I will feel what he felt, I determined; I will feel hunger and thirst and pain. I will become the mouse.
I vowed that from that moment on, no food or drink would pass my lips. If he endured it, then so would I. I had to be made to suffer. It was the only way.
So the next day I got up and went to school without breakfast.
By the time I got there I was dreaming of Big Macs and French fries, but there was no way I was going to give in.
I had to suffer.
âWhy arenât you eating?â Julie asked, as I knew she would. She cares. Sheâs not the kind of person who would starve anything.
âOh, I donât feel so great,â I said. And it was true. I didnât. I couldnât hold out any longer. I got a milk shake. Itâs a drink, I told myself. Not food.
I lasted two days on milk shakes alone before giving up. I lied to Julie. I couldnât tell her the truth. Instead, I told her the mouse died from some unknown cause.
âI donât know,â I said, âone minute he was okay and the next time I looked he was dead.â
I should be dead instead.
November 1, 1983
M rs. C-J thinks I should go and look at Mumâs body. She hasnât been buried yet because they have to do an autopsy. I canât bear to think of them cutting her open.
âIt will help you believe it,â Mrs. C-J says. âYouâll be better able to accept it.â Maybe sheâs right. Maybe I should see Mumâs body. I canât seem to grasp that my mother is dead, that her body has no life in it anymore, that sheâll never be walking and talking again. Sheâll never hug me again. Why canât I believe it? I havenât seen her for almost two weeks, and thatâs never happened. I canât call her on the phone, I canât write her a letter and expect one in return. Sheâs gone and I know it, but at the same time I donât. I canât get my head around it.
Maybe seeing her lying there in a coffin would make it real. But would she be in a coffin yet or on one of those cold metal drawers they pull out of the fridge at the morgue? If I see it, will that be my last memory of her? Will that be all I remember because Iâll be so traumatized I wonât be able to think of anything else? Iâll try to see that rare smile of hers or her small, quiet eyes, and all Iâll see is a cold, closed mouth and closed eyes with nothing but death and pain behind them. They said she died instantly and felt no pain. I love that. How do they know? Have they ever died instantly? And did she really die instantly, or is that just something they tell the poor grieving children to comfort them?
âOh, Erin, thatâs sick! God, youâre melodramatic!â Tracy said when I asked what she thought about going to the morgue.
Iâm not going to go. I donât want the nightmares Tracy says Iâll have.
I canât even think of Mum in
        Â
This isnât the first time Iâve been guilty of killing something.
I killed the pet mouse Julie gave me for my fourteenth birthday.
I forgot to feed it and it died. I was a teenage murderer! Or, if it wasnât on purpose, is it manslaughter? Or should I say
mouse
-slaughter. No, it was outright murder, no matter how I looked at it.
It wouldnât have happened if heâd gotten a bit of cheese every once in a while. But no, I was too busy to think of that. How could I have been so cruel and selfish?
For days after he died, every time I closed my eyes I imagined that little mouse crawling around desperate for foodâ¦every day getting weaker and weaker. Oh, how he must have suffered! What a slow and painful death it must have beenâ¦and it was going on right in my bedroom! He was dying right before my very eyesâif Iâd bothered to look!
I decided I should be made to suffer the way he suffered. I took my punishment into my own hands. I will feel what he felt, I determined; I will feel hunger and thirst and pain. I will become the mouse.
I vowed that from that moment on, no food or drink would pass my lips. If he endured it, then so would I. I had to be made to suffer. It was the only way.
So the next day I got up and went to school without breakfast.
By the time I got there I was dreaming of Big Macs and French fries, but there was no way I was going to give in.
I had to suffer.
âWhy arenât you eating?â Julie asked, as I knew she would. She cares. Sheâs not the kind of person who would starve anything.
âOh, I donât feel so great,â I said. And it was true. I didnât. I couldnât hold out any longer. I got a milk shake. Itâs a drink, I told myself. Not food.
I lasted two days on milk shakes alone before giving up. I lied to Julie. I couldnât tell her the truth. Instead, I told her the mouse died from some unknown cause.
âI donât know,â I said, âone minute he was okay and the next time I looked he was dead.â
I should be dead instead.
November 1, 1983
M rs. C-J thinks I should go and look at Mumâs body. She hasnât been buried yet because they have to do an autopsy. I canât bear to think of them cutting her open.
âIt will help you believe it,â Mrs. C-J says. âYouâll be better able to accept it.â Maybe sheâs right. Maybe I should see Mumâs body. I canât seem to grasp that my mother is dead, that her body has no life in it anymore, that sheâll never be walking and talking again. Sheâll never hug me again. Why canât I believe it? I havenât seen her for almost two weeks, and thatâs never happened. I canât call her on the phone, I canât write her a letter and expect one in return. Sheâs gone and I know it, but at the same time I donât. I canât get my head around it.
Maybe seeing her lying there in a coffin would make it real. But would she be in a coffin yet or on one of those cold metal drawers they pull out of the fridge at the morgue? If I see it, will that be my last memory of her? Will that be all I remember because Iâll be so traumatized I wonât be able to think of anything else? Iâll try to see that rare smile of hers or her small, quiet eyes, and all Iâll see is a cold, closed mouth and closed eyes with nothing but death and pain behind them. They said she died instantly and felt no pain. I love that. How do they know? Have they ever died instantly? And did she really die instantly, or is that just something they tell the poor grieving children to comfort them?
âOh, Erin, thatâs sick! God, youâre melodramatic!â Tracy said when I asked what she thought about going to the morgue.
Iâm not going to go. I donât want the nightmares Tracy says Iâll have.
I canât even think of Mum in
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