I murdered my family.

I watched my 13-year-old boy and his mother eat the peanut butter sandwich that I had bought them in the dim candlelit room, with sorrow etched into their faces.

I agree, it’s pointless to try and justify my actions, but I just couldn’t live with this burden laid upon me. I couldn’t bear another day of seeing them in this hungry and miserable state. Finding any form of employment and any way to make money had yielded no results. The sandwiches that were being eaten? I couldn’t even afford them. I had resorted to being a shoplifter.

As they swallowed the tiny morsels of bread, I smiled. “Don’t worry, it will all be better soon”, I reassured. “Come, let us pray”.

That night, I prayed fervently. No longer did I pray for a light at the end of the tunnel. No longer did I pray for better days. As my son and wife began to foam and convulse at the mouth, I prayed that my soul would be forgiven. That my family would forgive my action of feeding them bread laced with rat poison. I finished my prayer with a smile, as my vision narrowed, and everything I knew faded into nothingness.