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墨書 Inktalez
The plastic sheet suffocated Mother to death. After I struck her, I didn’t confirm whether she was dead, which only increased the likelihood of my deductions.
Today, he had that woman impersonate my Mother, allowing many people to serve as witnesses to the time of her death.
Given how that woman was dressed today, even I almost mistook her for my Mother, let alone the Director of the Guidance Office or the insurance company staff who had only met her once.
While talking to the Director, Father stood in front and spoke, never giving the Director a chance to notice the woman beside him.
If Father now completely shifts the blame for Mother’s death onto me, it would net him an extra million without having to share it with anyone in the family, far better than my self-surrender yesterday.
In this family, the word "share" has never existed.
Everything is my fault; I shouldn’t have harmed her like this. If what I did is truly unforgivable, I am willing to accept the punishment.
Though I am just a high school student, I am still ready to take full responsibility for my moment of impulse.
This is my Confession Letter, but it is not written by me.
When I arranged to meet him on the rooftop, I never intended for him to come down—except to fall.
His body is lodged high up in a pine tree branch, seemingly still undiscovered.
Before I pushed him off, I made him write this apology letter because I wanted to personally destroy the origin of all this tragedy—my parents.
Killing Mother was not an impulsive act. Mother had told many people that if she were to be killed, it would be at the hands of Father and his Mistress.
Today, Father’s seemingly flawless plan made him the prime suspect with the strongest motive for murder.
As for the Confession Letter in his hand, it would only serve as evidence of his failed attempt to frame me. Father likely had no idea, as he didn’t even recognize his own daughter’s handwriting.
Everything he did only pushed him deeper into an irretrievable abyss.
They deserved their fate. For seventeen years, they had never understood my feelings or truly cared about a child's needs.
When Father put shoes on me today, I felt a moment of compassion and almost considered abandoning my plan.
However, his subsequent cruelty shattered any remaining illusions. I had to see my plan through to ensure this family could no longer hurt me.
On my way home from school, I called the police. I guessed that by now Father had set everything in motion. I wondered what state Mother would be found in; it would surely be a murder scene that made everyone believe I was responsible for the killing.
I had never felt such urgency to return home. As I stood by the Main Road, I spotted a gap between two cars and darted out, my steps hurried and frantic.
But after just a few strides, I suddenly lost my balance; my new Nike Shoes had come apart at the sole. I noticed marks on the edge as if someone had sliced them with a blade.
A Container Truck roared toward me, its horn blaring deafeningly, rubber tires screeching against the pavement, leaving behind dark rubber crumbs.
I was caught in a Murder.
Why did Father just ask me if I had physical education class?
He simply wanted to confirm that this Main Road would become my final resting place, as it is particularly busy during dismissal time. If I don’t hurry and take a few quick steps, there’s no way to cross it.
Perhaps I am the insured person on that policy tucked away in Father’s pocket.
In my mind, the last image that freezes is of an empty classroom, where I sit at my desk, swinging my legs playfully. They sway with the rhythm of my heartbeat, sending particles of sunlight dancing around me, without a care in the world, serene as if in a paradise.
And that version of me doesn’t seem like a child who belongs to such a family.
At least, not in that moment.
To be in the right place and do the right thing is the greatest joy.
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