My Life Story
Turning the page of the book infront of me, absorbing none of the words, my eyes following the lines but not focusing on them.
“Is it a good book?”
I jumped slightly at the unexpected interruption that dragged me back into reality. I slowly turned to face the man sitting to my left was my darling husband. His dark wavy hair swept back off his forehead, neatly parted at the center , the style he had had in all the time I had known him. Although he did change the color on a few occasions.
Slippers sat snugly upon his feet, the ones I had bought him three years earlier for Christmas. They bore more holes in than a nibbled cube of cheese that greedy mice had luckily savaged. The remote control in his right hand ,his index finger tapping it rhythmically. One of the many annoying habits he had. He smiled lovingly at me which turned my stomach, showing the yellow tainted teeth behind his perfect parted lips. The lips I so often felt brushed against my own. I threw a twisted smile back in his direction, I could not bare to even look at him.
Ten years I had spent with this man, ten years of my own life wasted.
“Fantastic”,I replied sarcastically through gritted teeth.
He smiled softly again and turned back to watching the television. A group of over paid men in shorts running around a football pitch. Dancing merrily around on the television screen chasing a ball. It infuriated me how he had to watch this meaningless sport. It wasn’t as if he even supported any of the teams that were playing. So what was the point in watching it? He didn’t care who won the game, so why waste a whole afternoon fixated on the screen?
Long gone were the lazy afternoons when we would spend all day tucked up together on the sofa , nibbling at earlobes and stroking each others half naked bodies. Making love back then was so satisfying, so pure and intense. Unable to keep our loving hands from touching and caressing every inch of bare flesh. Items of clothing strewn all over the bedroom floor. We christened every room of our first home together. The old kitchen table we had with the loose leg from all the action we had on top of it. I hated getting rid of that table, even though it was old and rotting away.
He would drive me wild, softly kissing the area from my shoulder to below my ear. Sending pulsating sensations rippling throughout my body. Working his way slowly down to my belly button with his tongue. Taking the time to show care and attention to my every sexual need. We had a very active and healthy sex life in the first few years. When did it become something so sinister and repulsive?
There were times he would just decide he wanted sex and although I refused, he would force himself upon me, penetrate me knowing I was wriggling beneath him to break free from his grasp, he just held me tighter.This was now what our sex life consisted of. The tears running down my face as he thrusted himself violently inside me. In time I learned the best way of dealing with this, was to lie perfectly still and to think of something else other than what my husband was doing to me. I decorated the house from top to bottom many times in my mind.
I had spoken to him about this aspect of our relationship, but he told me I was his wife and he had needs, these needs I was expected to meet. I knew that Sex was part of a loving relationship between consenting couples. He never saw me as a victim, just as his frigid wife.
The mere thought of him touching me these days made my skin crawl, the sound of his voice made my stomach wrench into tight knots. His presence nauseated me. This man, the one I used to love with every breath of my being I now hated. I hated him with every bone in my body. The hatred only deepened with each passing day.
I was sure I was not the only woman ever to wish their partner dead at times, but times had turned into a daily thought. I stood in the kitchen staring out of the window, I could see his reflection. I shuddered.
“Would you like a coffee” I shouted.
Babe? I ain’t your babe I thought, I am nothing to you.
As I slowly stirred the mixture of hot water,coffee,milk and sugar together I wondered if rat poison or perhaps arsenic would take that long to take on the desired effect I wanted. I had looked up rat poison but found no scientific study. Arsenic, however, was odourless, colourless and tasteless.
It wouldn’t alter the taste of coffee to a great degree. My trusting husband would never question a slightly strange tasting coffee. He’d probably take a drink and wonder why the coffee tasted odd and I could always lie to him or pretend he’s just imagining things. Would make a change it being him imagining things. But this would take too long ,time was not on my side.
In all the times I had thought about killing my husband, never did the thought that I would never get away with it ever cross my mind. The fact that he would be out of my life forever was far more important, I would have to face whatever consequences came later. What if I did get caught? What if I get put away for the rest of my life? I reasoned anything had to be better than being here with him.
The thoughts of is it right to kill another human being was not considered. If the only way to save your own life was by killing, I’d consider it acceptable, wouldn’t everyone? That’s why I was killing him, to get my own life back. A matter of life or death. I choose life which sadly meant death for him. After all, the most basic primal instinct of all life is to preserve one’s own self first and foremost. Laws of Nature I’m afraid.
In fact I had also convinced myself once that it could be classed as Euthanasia. Killing him for his own good. He didn’t know how to live in the real world. He had no idea how to do anything right. He had no loving family or anyone I could think of that would miss him when he was gone. He had a low paid career that he despised, he had no worldly possessions that meant anything to him. He lived to the same routine each and everyday. His life was far too boring for him to miss it.
But it was just so hard to decide how and when to do it. I knew why I was doing it, who could blame me? I had tried to reason with him, I had tried to sit down and talk though our problems like adults. I had begged, screamed even pleaded with him. He had tried anger management programmes and we had both had counselling, to no avail. I had left him, walked out of our marriage countless times. I always came back. He had always had that hold over me. I could never leave this man. I knew he would never leave me. He had had numerous affairs, some I knew about, some were not known, but it was always our bed he came back too. He needed me like you need to air to breath. Through me he lived. Without me he would die.
I couldn’t exactly discuss this topic with anyone now could I? The fact that I wanted to kill my husband. I could not seek help and advice. They would think I was insane? Then it hit me. There it was, the perfect motif ,the perfect alibi. I was in fact insane. It wouldn’t take a great effort at all to convince people I was actually insane now would it? All they would have to do was take one look at my medical file.
I had a vast record of mental illness dating back to when I was twelve years old, when I had tried to take my own life. I had lost count of the number of times I had swallowed those little white tablets which turned me into a walking zombie, antidepressants. I was an expert on depression. Then there was the breakdown I had suffered only twelve months earlier. Perhaps I had never taken the prescribed medication and I was still unable to control my own mind.
I had long since stopped praying he would be killed in a horrific car accident , or be run over by a bus. That was never going to happen. I was more likely to win the National Lottery.
I had looked into other ways of killing him , in fact I had quite a good recollection now of how others had killed people, of course most of these people were now serving life sentences. But that didn’t deter me in the slightest. Maybe I would get lucky.
I would play out different scenarios inside my head, looking at them in depth from lots of different angles. What if that happened or what if he was able to stop me. This limited what I would be able to do. He was much larger and therefore much stronger than me.
I could take a large kitchen knife perhaps the one I used to cut his joint of beef every Sunday, I could raise it high above my head and bring it down and sink the sharp, cold silver glistening blade deep into his chest. What if I missed his heart? Would that mean with an operation he would then survive?
I would very likely miss his heart and while I may damage other parts of his chest and maybe another organ, stabbing someone in the front chest to reach their heart is best done with an under swung blow instead of an over swing I decided. Over swings will connect with the ribs and those were built to deflect blows with pointy objects like knives. Not to mention hitting the heart is a precise task and you are more likely to puncture a lung than injure the heart.
I could just stab away at his body in a wild frenzied attack and leave him there bleeding to death. I could sit and have a nice hot cup of coffee and perhaps finish reading my book while he lay dying on the cold tiles of the kitchen flooring. But I was sure his dying gurgling noises of chocking on blood and his cries for help would just annoy me and distract me from my reading.
I could of course shoot him, but I had no idea how or where to get hold of a gun ,even if I could get one , knowing my luck I would miss anyway.
Poisoning wasn’t a very good idea as already established with the coffee idea.
I had looked into the prospect of hiring someone else to do the job for me, but wasn’t that taking the coward way out? Besides I didn’t have the finances and to be honest wouldn’t have known how to go about this properly. That would also take time and planning anyway. I wanted it to take place when I felt it right. The suspense and waiting would be too much to bear, I never was good at keeping secrets.
My favorite scenario was that of burning him alive. He would definitely feel pain that way wouldn’t he? I would never be able to make him feel as much pain as he had inflicted upon me, but it was pain none the less. We would go to bed as any usual night and we’d make love as we usually did, much to my disgust. But it always tired him out, he never had had good stamina. He would then roll over onto his right side and fall fast asleep.
Once asleep nothing could wake him ,not even a bomb going off and no I had no desired attempt to try to make explosives. I would then wait till I heard him snoring deeply, I would leave our bed go downstairs to the outhouse and fetch the can of petrol he kept next to he lawnmower. I would then return to the bedroom and as quick as a flash soak the bed in petrol, I loved the smell of petrol , I could not walk past a Petrol Station without filling my lungs with the beautiful smell. With one flick of a match the bed would go up in flames along with him.
But of course he could wake up, he could smell the petrol, he might not even get burned, he might even survive my plan even if he were to be badly hurt. Another idea to throw out of the window.
I welcome you all to join me in my journey of self-discovery and face with me the obstacles I have overcome and still face. As I share for the first time my incredible life story.