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Grade
9

My daughter is the sweetest girl I know. She has hair that runs just past her shoulders and rosy cheeks that are always lifted in a grin. We haven’t talked in awhile, but that’s okay. She told me she doesn’t want to talk to her papa anymore.

I send her letters every day from this grimy cell, always reminding her that I’ll see her soon, that I still love her. I remember how she screamed and cried when I held a double-barreled rifle to her mother’s abdomen. She doesn't understand that I had to do it, that it would be better for the both of us.

Her pleas pierced my heart. I hope one day she'll understand. The last thing I remember from that day was police sirens and two limp bodies puddled at my feet.