It probably doesn’t help that I have the apple peeler pinned to my kitchen wall. There were so many times I had contemplated whether or not I should just send it to you with a note telling you how sorry I am.

But I worried you might toss out the box before you even opened it.

Not that you don’t have a right to be mad. You are well within reason to not want to talk to me, or to simply tell me to fuck off. Of course, I hope you don’t do those things. But what I’m trying to say is that I understand if that’s how you feel. I did something to you I’ll never forgive myself for as long as I live. After all your consideration, your kindness – to have it thrown back in your face with the same disregard that people might consider when contemplating weekly trash disposal. There’s no worse insult I can think of.

It was never my intention to hurt you. I don’t really think I’m better off without you. I should’ve never said that. Sometimes we say or do things to people we love because we know it will hurt them.

Besides, what I had done nearly isn’t as horrible as what some other people have done.

For God’s sake, there are people who impale baby birds with toothpicks. Or people who pour bleach inside cats’ ears.

I don’t know about you but hearing about the terrible things other people have done have always made me feel better about the things I’ve done.

I remember watching a TV interview with a teenager who had crucified his little brother. You probably heard about it. He called his brother “The Little Christ” because his parents endlessly doted on the child.

Anyway, they had him in handcuffs on TV – dressed in an orange jumpsuit, chatting with a reporter. And he starts talking about how he did it.

He waits until his parents go to sleep one night, and he creeps into the nursery, spooning his baby brother from his cradle into his arms. The child makes little mewling noises like a kitten, but he keeps a blanket over his mouth to muffle the sounds. After he’s finished loading up the car with the supplies he needs, he ferries the Little Christ from the house to the backseat of his station-wagon. He shifts the car into gear and before long he’s on the road, hurtling down the highway as if he were bound for the Promised Land, Shangri-La – anywhere but here.

He thinks about how he should do it first. Should he just kill him and get it over with? Or should he take his time and make it as perfect as possible?