In one of the poor neighborhoods of town, a woman had been sleeping with every man who approached her. One day, her son, who could no longer bear the shame, stormed into her bedroom. He attached her with his dagger, stabbing her repeatedly, making sure that she was dead.
His will was resolute, and he kept his head up as he staggered out of the house, his clothes stained with her blood. He walked purposelessly along the back streets of the neighborhood for several hours until a friend chanced upon him and soon heard his confession.
“But my friend, why did you kill her? I don’t understand,” the friend asked him, completely perplexed.
“She was a prostitute and shamed me every day!” blurted out the young man, angry that his friend had not understood his pure intention and was now questioning him.
“Why didn’t you kill her lovers? Why kill her?” repeated the confused friend.
“I would’ve had to kill a man a day!” rationalized the troubled man. “This way her shame is buried with her for all time, and I don’t ever have to commit another murder.”
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