The night I killed my daughter, I felt the worst kind of pain. I killed her with a heavy heart. I couldn’t stop crying. I did it with fear and a sense of courage. I did it to save her. To free her from her dark moments.
The sickness had taken hold of her so badly that we weren’t sure of her recovery. The deadly disease, leukemia had eaten deep into her. Every night, she wriggled in pain. She cried so often that I couldn’t bear it but cry with her too. She was just ten. There were times I would intentionally inflict pain on myself just to feel the pain she was going through.
Then, last night, I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t hold it any longer. While she was asleep, I sneaked into her room and snuffed her out with the pillow. My hands were trembling while I was doing that but I couldn’t stop. I just wanted her to be free from the pains.
Slowly, her breathing stopped. Her body stopped shaking. Her body became cold. I knew she was no more. But did I free myself of the pain? No. My own pain came immediately. The thought of my act had suddenly hit me straight in the heart. Her sight on the bed had itched my skin so badly. But it was too late. I just killed my daughter.
This night, I plan on joining her. I would definitely do to myself what I did to her but mine would be painful. Horrible. The thought of her death kills me each moment.