The milieu of one’s upbringing can at times…well, I guess that’s just…what I’m trying to say is…I suppose it is murder. I just never thought of it that way. A stranger rolls into town, doesn’t have any friends or family, and nobody will know or care if he disappears. I don’t know what to tell you, my mom killed them. I suppose she did it quietly and whatnot. I remember feeling uncomfortable. When I was older, she’d have me dig the holes. I’d complain, but no more than any other chore. It was just something that was done, you know? Like, evening prayers. You don’t necessarily believe in God or even know what God is, but when you’re frightened, need comfort, don’t know what to do, you find yourself praying again like you were a child.
I mean, I realized that people didn’t go around cutting each other’s throats and hiding the bodies normally. Once I got to college, I mean, you start to put things together. Once you move around enough, you begin to figure out that every place has its own rules, even placeless places. When I ran away from home, there were rules among us transients I had to learn. Just another milieu.
Anyway, killing wasn’t hard or startling or even very new to me in all truth. I’m not trying to make you a murderer, but some parts of childhood were, well they are still, right. I’m not so sure our high minded ways, the milieu, what fun are French words, from college is entirely right either. Probably none of them are. He was blackmailing us, and if you won’t say anything, we can just forget he ever existed. Just be quiet. I know how to take care of this. I already dug the hole yesterday.
Tale Told 