Kalah Allen
I'm sorry I killed you. You were my favorite trick. I could count on you for $60 every Thursday, and of all the times you "hired" me, I only performed a service twice. Seemed like you just didn't want to be alone. I thought it was so cool that you were moving back home. You were all set to go. 72 hours before your flight, you called. I wasn't surprised when you asked me to get some coke. It always makes you so paranoid, but that night you seemed really frightened, peeking out the window with that stupid little pocketknife clenched in your fist. If you did a little smack you might relax and enjoy your high. But you didn't, and I ended up shooting most of it. You were so jittery that I slapped you, and you dropped to the floor. I managed to get you up and breathing, but then I guess I nodded out. I'm sorry I killed you. I was trying to help. When I woke up I took the rest of the coke, paid myself (thanks for the tip), and did the only thing I could: left you alone.

--Anonymous