June 18th, 1982 - That was the day I stabbed my momma to death. I wasn't but 15 years old when it happened. I snuck into her room while she was sleeping and stabbed her in the throat with the scissors she used for scrapbooking. I never saw no one die before, and even though I don't regret it, the image of her choking on blood still haunts my dreams at night.

It was just my momma and me, see. And she was always telling me she loved me very much. So much that she used to come into my room at night and touch me under my panties. She would say "This is for your own good, Jess. If we don't get the demons out, some boy is gonna end up stickin ya, and then I'll have a damn grandkid I can't afford to feed. It's bad enough you eat like the cow that you are." So yeah, I stabbed her, stabbed her and left. 

I washed the sticky blood off my hands and arms, it got all over the place, it did, then threw some things in the Precious Princess backpack she had bought me for my 13th birthday and hit the road. Momma always warned me about hitchin, but I was done takin her advice and so I stuck out a thumb as I walked down the stretch of interstate that connected our podunk town to the big city.

I must have walked seven miles with my thumb stuck out, and my arm was gettin real tired by the time a rusty ol Chevrolet pulled over. He couldn't have had better timin too, the clouds overhead were turning dark and thunder broke the pattern of cars whizzing by. A few droplets hit my face as I pulled open the passenger door. I slid in before I even had a chance to look at the man behind the wheel and said, "Thanks, mister."

"Whatchu doing out this time of night, girl? Didn't anyone ever tell you hitchin is dangerous?"

"That's what my momma always told me, mister."

The man had thrown the truck in drive and started to cruise down the interstate. "Your momma?" he said. He flipped on the truck's dome light and peered at me. I felt my stomach clench; maybe my momma was right. After studying my face for a bit, the man said, "Say, ain't you Shirley's daughter?"

"I am. Or I was I mean. I ain't no more. I'm going to Jackson. I'm gonna stay with friends."

“Whatchu mean, you ain’t Shirley’s daughter no more?” he asked.

“I mean I’m runnin away from home, mister. In case that warn’t apparent.”

“Clyde.” 

“What’s that?”

“My name is Clyde, girl. And what’s yours? And what are you runnin from? Your momma always seemed real nice at church. She talks about how smart her little girl is all the time. Says you even took third in the spelling bee one year.”

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“Yeah? She also tell you how I’m a fat cow and bound to get pregnant by a black boy? And my name is Jess.”

“What? She ain’t never said nothing like that. Only ever sang your praises. She’s always smiling in Sunday service. I rarely seen a smile that could light up a room like hers does.”

“Meaning no offense, mister Clyde, but you didn’t know my momma like I did. I mean, do.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s true.” He turned the radio on that had been off since I got in. Mr. Alan Jackson was singing about neon rainbows. We traveled in silence for some while except for when some guy cut Clyde off, and he sped up to get alongside him, flipped him off and called him all sorts of words my momma would have tsked about.

Up the road a little bit, Clyde pulled off the interstate. “What are you doin?” I asked. “This ain’t the Jackson turn off.” 

“I’m takin you home, Jess. Your momma’s probably pretty worried about you by now.”

“Mister, I promise you my momma ain’t worrying about nothing. Now, take me to Jackson.”

“Fraid I can’t do that, Jess. Not without hearing what you’re momma has to say about it. Tell you what, if she says it’s alright to stay with your friends, then I’ll take you to Jackson.”

“Mister. Clyde. Please. Don’t take me back there. You don’t know my momma. She’s a mean, mean lady.”

“Listen, if it was one of my little girls out this late, and your momma saw her walkin, I know she’d bring her to my house, being the good Christian woman that she is.”

To that I said nothing. Just sat there waitin for him to come upon the first stop sign, so I could jump out. But it didn’t look like I was going to get my chance. It was all green lights all the way, no stop signs. Finally we came up on a yield sign, and I jumped out that rusted Chevy quicker than spit, even though it was still rollin.

“Jess!” The man called after me, reachin out an arm to try and grab me. I hit the ground, tumbled a bit, tore holes in both my pantlegs and got roadrash all over my legs and arms. The rain was coming down a good bit now, soaking me to the bone. 

“Jess!” Clyde called after me again, slamming on his brakes. I got up on my feet, a bit unsteady, but we warn’t goin too fast, to be honest, so despite bein a bit ate up, I warn’t too much worse for the wear. “Get back in the truck,” Clyde commanded. He was coming up on me fast. So I did what I had to do. I unzipped my Precious Princess backpack as fast as I could, digging past the clothes I had packed in search of my momma’s scrapbooking scissors. No point in leavin them at the house, I thought. They still had a bit of my momma’s blood on them. 

Just as Clyde came up on me, grabbing hold of my arm, my hand closed around the handle of the scissors and I whipped them out and stabbed Clyde in the arm he was holding me with. He let out a string of curses even worse than the ones he had levied at the guy who had cut us off and dropped my arm. 

“You bitch!” he cried, covering the wound with his hand. And before I knew what I was doing, I jammed those things in his throat, just like I did my momma. He gurgled and his eyes rolled back in his skull, just like my momma’s did, like he was staring up at heaven, waiting for an angel to take him up. I knew my momma wouldn’t go there, but I hoped Clyde would. I wiped the scissors off on his shirt, then stuck them back in my bag. He didn’t deserve for me to do him like I did, but what choice did I have? There warn’t no way I was going home again.