The Reflection

Let’s start off with the facts, my name is Abigale Shea Gunner, I was born on January 9th, 1985 in Dallas, Texas. I grew up as a single child until I hit the ripe age of four, little Isaiah Harley Gunner was delivered on the very floor where he was conceived, aint that sweet. He was a cute kid ‘til his daddy came around and started getting all violent. That man was as short as our white picket fence and he could still throw us around like we weighed nothing more than a dozen eggs. Anyway, Isaiah got real mean after that, but no matter how much muscle Isaiah gained, his daddy could still beat him down every single day of his life.
         One day the fighting got real bad, Isaiah’s daddy had gotten real drunk that night and confessed that he had been cheating on our mom. Isaiah got so mad I swear I saw the anger radiate from him as he approached that man; Isaiah threw the first punch, Isaiah’s daddy threw the last.  Isaiah lay on the floor, not breathing; blood running out of his mouth and nose. With momma at work I didn’t stand a chance trying to fight him off of me during his next output of rage. The most disgusting thing about that man is after he was done with me, he went and buried Isaiah, and came back and slept with my momma. Not telling any little birds about the girl that was sitting in the closet wrapped in a bloody blanket, waiting for her brother’s daddy to leave, so she could get her momma and go.
When momma found me the next morning, the blood had dried. She washed my sheets and gave me a pat on the back. “It’s alright sugar,” she told me. She never did believe me about what that man did to me; and no matter how many times she found me in my closet, wrapped up in a bloody blanket, she never told that man to leave. I guess she loved him. She loved him enough to let him rape her daughter every night before she got home from work, selfish piece of garbage!
It was two weeks after the first time Isaiah’s daddy raped me, that night had been especially painful. My momma walked in while he was doing his business on me; she just stood there with an open jaw, didn’t say a word; then walked out and went on with cooking dinner. That night she looked at me with hatred from across that table. I couldn’t take it anymore so I got up, took my plate, and locked myself in the bathroom. I heard them that night in their room, sounded like my mother was trying to prove something to all of us. She proved that she cares more about having a goodnights loving than her own flesh and blood, her own daughter.
Once they got quite, and I heard the treacherous grumbles and snores from Isaiah’s daddy, I crept into the kitchen and grabbed the old rifle from behind the antique grey refrigerator. Old Sal from across the street gave us that refrigerator, after he got rich from selling young girls to old fancy business perverts. I knew the gun wouldn’t be loaded, so I padded into the bathroom and found the bullets behind the toilet. My momma never was any good at hiding things; I always found that big stash of cookies tucked away on the inside of the corner cupboard when I was little. I ate everyone if those cookies and she never find out how I got them. She just blamed it on Isaiah’s daddy.
I stepped outside so they wouldn’t hear me loading the gun. Two bullets were all I needed, one for each of the heads of the sleeping lovers. Shooting my momma was harder than it was for me to shoot Isaiah’s daddy. My momma looked up at me with the eyes that I saw every morning in my own reflection. My momma said three little words, “I’m sorry baby.” I knew right then and there that my mother was just as wicked as the dead man next to her. I pulled that trigger and I have never regretted it. Not even now, when I’m sitting in this chair waiting to die. I did the right thing by taking two devils out of this world…
Murder, one of the hardest things to comprehend, and even though I told you my story people still won’t understand why I did it. I stare at my reflection as the story of my life unfolds around me. Not knowing who will listen or if anyone will even understand, but I give you this; hoping that someone will take my story and do something good with it. Please take care of my one treasure… Please take care of the story of my life…