A gun. That's what I held in my hand. For the longest time, I didn't know such a lethal weapon existed. I thought it was just a toy. That's what my mother told me when I dared to ask about it after seeing one in a movie.
"It's harmless," she had said. "It only shoots water."
I should have asked more questions, should have been less trusting. But what could I do? My mind was a blank slate, and the only person who could fill it was the one who had raised me. She taught me how to speak, how to sit, how to do everything a normal person does. Now I realize she should have also taught me how to interact with others, the basic skills of social life.
I noticed how everyone looked at me, frozen in silence. The gun in my hand gave me control. I dictated what happened next. But I wasn't a murderer. I didn't want my mother to die. She might be a bad person, but she was still the woman who gave birth to me.
"Get behind me, Enzo," I said, aiming the gun at all of them.
