It wasn't my fault . . .
He was on the floor,shins cut open, motionless. I held the blood stained hockey stick in one hand, fear and anger in the other, everyone looked at me in dispare, worried yet ashamed. They were the judges and I was the suspect guilty of murder. I lay sobbing, my hand were as wet as a swimming pool, I looked up, I didn't know what to do but then I got some courage to speak, but all I said "It wasn't my fault," but they stared at me, boaring a hole in my head. I couldn't move, pinned by their beedy eyes. At that moment . . . Iwanted to be dead.