I Killed Her

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I killed her. I don’t know why. She made me angry, I guess. But she made me angry every day. Why was it this day that I picked up the shovel and killed her? I shouldn’t even be thinking about WHY I killed her. Instead I should be thinking about what the fuck I’m going to do with her body. What the fuck I’m going to tell the cops when they inevitably come looking for her. But I can’t seem to focus. I’m stuck trying to figure out what it was about today that was different from every other day. What did she do today that was so god damn bad? And I can think of nothing. Nothing more today than any day. She was just there, sitting like always, when I got home. We argued, nothing in particular, just the usual crap. We didn’t even like each other anymore. In truth, we’d moved past most of the anger. We were in the “I don’t care” phase that is dangerous to most marriages. I didn’t give a shit how she felt, and she could care less about my feelings. We argued because neither one of us wanted to share space with the other. She was perfectly fine until I came home, content to do whatever it was that she did all day. But as soon as I walked in the door, she was annoyed merely by my presence. And I felt the same way about her. She was just sitting there. And I wanted to slap her, just for sitting. How does that make any sense? Maybe I didn’t want to slap her for sitting, maybe I wanted to slap her for the fight I knew would be coming. For the argument I knew she would start. Maybe because I wanted to sit on the fucking couch and watch TV for once but I couldn’t because her ass was already parked there. Now I can sit on the couch because she’s gone. Until, at least, they come and take me to jail for murder.

What the fuck am I going to do with her, and how am I going to get out of this mess? She’s staring at me. Still. Even in death the bitch can look at me with those condescending eyes, like she’s judging me for her own death. I want to slap her dead face. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to get it together and just DO something. She has to go. But where? I don’t even know how to get her out of here without being seen. I have no idea how those serial killers do it. Who carries around dead bodies and doesn’t ever get spotted? Does that shit actually even happen in real life? I hope to god she picked up trash bags at the store. I go downstairs and check. She did. So now, armed with a new box of trash bags, I still have no plan.

This is how people get caught, I realize. All that new shit they have in forensics can tell who has touched everything in a house, on a body. They can probably tell how many fucking trash bags we go through in a week and figure out that some are missing. Jesus Christ, I’m in trouble. Okay. Breathe. Clearly, I don’t have the resolve to cut her up. Not to mention a severe lack of tools or knowledge on how to even do such a thing. So I’m going to have to keep her whole. Bleach. People always use bleach. I go find the bleach. Later, that’s for later.

Grabbing some trash bags, I start covering her up. Believe me, this is a lot harder to do than you think. Especially when you’re trying not to leave any evidence. I’m sitting on the floor, wearing my wife’s shower cap and some latex gloves, trying to keep her upright while I stuff the top of her into one trash bag. She keeps falling over. This is not good. After I finally get the top half in, I start on the lower half with a new bag. This part is easier. I manage to get the whole thing duct taped together before I remember that people on TV always put rocks and shit in there to make the bags sink. Am I even going to dump her in water? The idea of finding a place along Lake Michigan that is deserted seems daunting. Whatever, any place that is deserted and near water will have rocks to put in there. Besides, it’s not like I can carry this mess to the car with 200 pounds of rocks in it. She’s fucking heavy enough, as I often told her. I double up the bags, just to be sure, and duct tape again.

Then I pull some pseudo-spy moves to figure out if anyone’s watching outside, where the lights are, etc. Finally, I grab her up and carry her to the car. I realize about halfway there that I should have dragged her as far as I could before I began the task of carrying this bulk. But it’s too late. Now I’m on pavement, which will sure as hell rip up the bags, and I have no choice but to carry her. Please god let no one be watching. In the trunk, lid shut.

I go back in the house and clean everything with bleach. And more bleach. At least I was smart enough to kill her on the linoleum. Like that was on purpose. I add all the cleaning shit to the trunk and get in the car. And drive around. For what seems like hours. Trying to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do with her. Finally, I see a back alley of a restaurant. That has to have a dumpster or something, right? I pull in as slowly as I can, trying not to attract any attention. There it is, the dumpster. It’s far enough from the house that no one should be looking for her in that area (thanks to my long joyride with a corpse), and the thing looks almost full. Hopefully it gets dumped soon, taken to god knows where. Maybe a giant landfill where she’ll never be found.

I pause for a moment and think that maybe I owe her a burial. Throwing someone in a dumpster when they’re wrapped in trash bags and duct tape is about the most undignified way to go ever. But then, am I supposed to sacrifice my freedom for her post-death pride? I don’t think so. She was such a bitch, after all. I don’t owe her shit. In the dumpster she goes, as does all the cleaning stuff. I didn’t realize how terrified I was until the way home. Now that she’s out of my hands, I’m practically hysterical, I’m so happy. I turn on the radio and sing along. I am a god damned genius. I killed my wife and got away with it. So far. The thought of cops and questions sobers me for a little bit. But I gradually realize that I was smart and careful, and they can’t prove shit. Just because my wife is gone doesn’t mean I killed her. Maybe she got in a fight with someone at the store. Maybe they were trying to steal her trash bags. Maybe they killed her. Yeah, that’s what I will tell them. It’s just as plausible as me killing her. And they can’t prove shit.

I pull into the driveway, just as I did hours before. When I walk into the house, there is silence. Blessed silence. The true silence that only exists in an empty house. And I’m glad I killed her. I sit on the couch, in her spot, and turn on the TV.

Image Credit: Zouch Magazine

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