I think I was twelve when it first happened. We were in the same grade, then, and we had some classes together. Sixth grade, it must've been. Of course we already knew each other, and I'd been over at yours enough times for my father to notice. Maybe that's why he made me do it. Maybe that's giving you too much credit.

She was about your sister's age. It seemed that way to me, anyway—at that age, every teenager felt so much larger, a monolith of high-school wisdom. Do you remember her? She might have known your sister, come to think of it. Yes, they must have known each other. I first met her at your house, after all. You'd have us—all four of us—cramped in your tiny living room around the television, much as your mother protested. I think, secretly, she was glad you at least got along with your sister. I think, much more proudly, she was glad you befriended me and that your sister befriended her.

You remember her now? That's good. I'm starting to forget the details, myself. At least one of us knows. Ha.

It was a political thing, I remember now. It must've been. Well, besides the obvious. …It's obvious to me. I'll tell you later.

I'd practiced on a chicken before, well. Multiple chickens, probably dozens. I wasn't very good at it. My cousin—God knows why she went along with it, I'm sure it had little to do with her and her mother at that point, well it involves her a lot more nowadays then it did then, or maybe that's just how my childhood rose-tinted-lenses filtered her to me, anyway I digress—she was a lot better at it than I was. Sometimes I thought maybe it should've been her, instead. Perhaps that's selfish. I think she would enjoy it. Though, I guess, she has that opportunity now, doesn't she?

Anyway, I'd never nick its neck right. More accurately, I'd get too overzealous, greedy maybe, and I'd cut most of the way through. Enough that the head would be barely hanging on. Lost cause. Cut it off completely. Start over.

The proper way to do it is this: The chicken, hung upside down by its feet as if suspended by the gallows. Cut the neck, not all the way, enough for the blood to spurt out like a spring. Drain the animal. Once it's completely bled dry, cut the head off. Et voilà. I heard somewhere this is the quickest way to do it. Most humane, probably. The chicken would, in effect, pass out. It wouldn't even know it died.

I don't much like doing it to people, though.

Ah, well, cat's out of the bag, huh? Oh, you've never been to my house before, have you? This is your first time here? Usually there's a tarpaulin here in the middle of the living room. Yeah, quite bare, you noticed. That's why. Need all the space we can get.

I remember it, I remember now. It was the week before my thirteenth birthday. I don't know, some fucked up bat mitzvah substitute. Maybe that's why. An initiation of sorts. I'd only practiced on chickens. Ah—what was her name again? It doesn't matter, she's dead now. Your sister's friend was a bit taller than me, and I used to be really small, scrawny, no real muscle. You'd think, right? Haha. I could deadlift you nowadays, though.

The tarpaulin was stark white—my father insisted on a brand new, unused one, specifically for the occasion, not every day your only daughter comes of age, though I always wondered why it was just me if he was so worried, couldn't he have had more children? But, again, I digress—duct taped all around on the dark, almost black hardwood floors. I wish we had a rug, too. You'll just have to sit on the floor for now, yeah, sorry.

He'd knocked her out beforehand, my father, your sister's friend, so she was easier to handle, in some ways. The dead weight certainly didn't help. Again, she was on the taller side, but quite thin. She was probably around fifty kilos, all things considered. Remember what I looked like when I was twelve? I was tiny. Sometimes I think it's the adrenaline that allowed me to carry her at all.

He brought her in—he's a large man, he didn't drag her in, that's crass. He carried her in the front door. It was in the dead of night. No one saw him, or at least, no one reported him. Ah, that's a good point. Who would they report him to?

I tied her feet together. I stood up, then reconsidered, and tied her hands together, too. (She was already blindfolded and gagged. I thought it was overkill then. Well, I guess you can never be too sure.) I'd managed to get her up there, do you see that, the hook on the ceiling? If you ever came over—lucky me that you never did, huh?—I would've said it was for a chandelier. Looking at it from below, it almost could be. I managed it, I did. What, you don't believe me?

My cousin watched the whole thing from the kitchen. No, she wasn't eating, I don't think even she'd have an appetite watching it happen. When I glanced over at her, she looked away. But I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I tried to string your sister's friend up.

What? Yes, she was still alive. I remember it clearly, no need to be skeptical. After the whole hanging ordeal, I climbed down the ladder—carefully, or as carefully as I could, shaking the whole way down, really I wouldn't have minded if I just fell over and broke my own neck—and as I stepped down I gave it a final kick so it clattered to the floor. My own little act of rebellion, late as it was. With no ladder, I reached up to her neck. To feel her pulse point.

There.

Faint, but right there. Right underneath my own pulsating fingertips.

Watching all of this with crossed arms, my father scoffed. He walked the length of the room and took the knife. It wasn't in the kitchen, god, we don't shit where we eat. It was—well, actually, it was right there, right behind where you're sitting. Haha. There used to be a long, almost gurney-like table there.

Ah, well, it certainly didn't look like any sort of special knife. It was an heirloom, but it looked like any old paring knife. Perhaps not the most efficient tool, but it was tradition. He kicked the bucket towards me and walked over to where I was, paralyzed with my hand on her neck. Breathing very shallowly.

He set the bucket—also stark white, perhaps a paint bucket? How stupid would that have been, right, this whole operation and our best tool was a paint bucket?—underneath her head. I doubted the bucket would collect everything. Well, that's what the tarp was for. Formally, very traditionally, he presented the knife to me in a fashion that suggested he had any respect for me at all. I took it. The wooden handle was rough against my childish palms.

And then—