The Day I Confessed to Murdering My Parents.

I wanted to kill my daughter. I never believed that there were people who were born bad until my daughter was born. When she was two years old, her grandmother was feeding her and she said, “Baby, let me eat a bite of your banana.” She then poked her grandmother’s eyes with fork, and her grandmother was caught off guard and sent to the hospital. When her husband teased her by saying he would take the toy away, she simply threw the toy on the ground and crushed it, screaming as she did so. When she was four years old, her friend’s child came to our house to play. For some reason, the two children started quarreling. When we were trying to comfort them, my daughter went into the kitchen, took out a kitchen knife and threw it directly at the child, almost causing blood to splatter on the spot. She loved to see us panicking. The more we screamed, the happier she was, clapping her hands and giggling. Then she grew bigger and more terrifying. My husband said exhaustedly, “Let’s have a second child.” From the half-open door, a pair of eerie eyes stared at us.