This is another installment in my Story Every Monday series. For the first installment, go here. For more stories, see the blog.

I committed my first murder the night my sister was born. They were going to name her Emily. I found a rabbit in the backyard and I pulled the ears off and waited for her to die. Afterwards they named my sister Charlotte instead and I knew it was because of me but I didn't know how. In therapy I drew pictures of a big dark bird coming into my head. Then I drew myself with my arms up, batting the bird away. I knew what to draw so they would let me out of therapy. There was never any bird.

When my sister was six months old I burned her face with a magnifying glass. I told her if she moved I would stop, but she didn't move. She just looked up at me like a fat gob of love. When I say I will do something, I have to do it.

They always ask me if "I have remorse." Remorse I understand. My trouble is with "I" and "have." Sometimes I am aware of feelings living near me. They are like shy roommates — they never speak to me, and when I enter a room they leave.