I recall the sight of my best friend’s mom Mrs. Bisade, crashed on the floor half bare as she wept. I comforted her with an embrace and she responded with a snug squeeze. I could sense her suffering from her grip. She had just lost a child and I a best friend. The autopsy report read that he overdosed on alcohol but what it didn’t or rather couldn’t tell her was that it was me who convinced him on a dare to steal and drink his father’s vodka. I was eleven then, a little too early to be a murderer.


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