I killed him. I wish I could say I didn’t mean to, but I can’t. He deserved it, every last slash and hack mark buried in his toxic, alcoholic blood. After all, he’d lied to me. Called me names that would make your hair curl. He cheated on me, his wife and the mother of his child, with his ex-lover. That’s when I killed him — when I found him in my bed, our bed, with her.
No, it didn’t matter to my drunken leech of a husband that I’d given the best years of my life to him. It didn’t matter that I stayed and defended him after he tried to kill me. Oh yeah, he tried to kill me. He stripped my baby girl from my arms and then squeezed his calloused hands around my throat before throwing me against the wall. He gave me nine blood clots along my spine that night. Police came out and took pictures and everything. If I’d had any sense, I would have killed him then, but no. I decided to take up sanctuary elsewhere for three months. He got his wrist slapped by the authorities and was forced into AA. I, being a naïve fool, went back to him only to end up bruised and battered again six weeks later.
My mom, everyone, told me to leave, get the hell out, but I couldn’t. They didn’t see the man I knew before he morphed into a demon from Hell. He used to care about me, about our future, about our lives together. He would have never laid a hand on me.
Then one night, he fell for the witch – a golden, frothy elixir who hungered for him as much as he hungered for her. She captivated him and, oh what a spell she wove. It was a spell I couldn’t break. Every morning he apologized for whatever he didn’t remember from the night before, sobbing as he caressed each cut and bruise, but then night-time would come along again and inevitably, he would fall back into the arms of the witch.
For so long I blamed myself. I mean, he pretty much hammered it home to me every day that I was a selfish bitch, telling me what a loser and a fucking lousy mother I was. God, I can’t believe I actually believed him . . . at least for a while. Then I went away for week, took our daughter to visit a friend, and when I came back and saw what a drunken slob he was and how he’d trashed our home, I left. I packed up all my shit and left.
That was a week ago. I moved back into my old place I had before we married. I had to or else he’d steal my soul, my dignity. God knows he’d already stolen my pride. Two days later he took a bad fall. Banged his head. Two days after that he ended up in the hospital. He’d suffered a stroke due to the fall. After he stabilized, he checked himself out of the hospital, refusing additional treatment. That was yesterday. Today, I took my daughter home to see her daddy. That’s when I found him, naked, in our bed with his ex-lover.
I fled. I went to my friend’s house and dropped off my daughter, then called my mom to tell her where she could find my baby. When I returned to my marital home, the slut was gone. I glanced over to the kitchen counter and saw the butcher knife glinting in the morning sunlight. There was no hesitation. I picked it up and went to the bedroom and stabbed my ‘better half’ . . . repeatedly. Then I cut his dick off. He wasn’t going to need it where he was going.
I wiped the blood from my face, suddenly aware of the .22 sitting on the dresser. I chuckled. How ironic. Was he really planning to kill me? Ha. I showed him. He never got a chance.
And I’m out of choices.
I’m sitting on the floor now in the corner of the bedroom drenched in his cheating blood. The gun is loaded and ready, but before I blow my brains out, I want everyone to know what happened. Baby girl, I love you, but I have to go now ’cause I’m not spending the rest of my life in jail. Grams will take care of you. Mom, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I love you so much.