The book A Prisoner by No Crime of My Own has been professionally edited and will be published this year. To pique interest, I will share tidbits from the manuscript with you each Tuesday.
When I was three and a half years old, I murdered a woman.
I spent the next fifty years retracing and recovering bent memories that had long been buried by the great force of denial. I went back and fought to uncover the truth that had been buried on forty acres, in a sink hole, on my parents’ property.
Returning because I too was a murderer. Although only three, I was old enough to feel the guilt when we walked out of that room alive, and she did not. Old enough to know that I now shared a secret with my father and his friend that no one else would ever know. We three would stay connected for the rest of our lives, incarcerated together with only each other as accomplices. Not a matter of speaking, but a matter of fact: I am guilty of murder just as they are.
Needing to reconstruct my past, the closer I got to it, the more the pain became real. By getting serious about exploring where I came from, I would not only be called a liar, but also be rejected by the only family I had. The closer to the truth, the deeper the cavern became between me and everything I had ever loved.