The First One

by Alyssa Martin about a year ago in fiction

A chilling first story about someone who had enough.

The First One

The Last One

I sat at the table, waiting patiently for the cop to walk in. For the questions to start. Why did I do it? How many? When, where, what time? I wasn’t afraid. I knew what I’d done. I knew it was wrong. I knew none of them deserved it. That it should have been him, and only him. But when it came to him, I couldn’t. The interrogator walked in then. He was tall, handsome, clean shaven, had unmistakable green eyes, a confident stride, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. His hair was long for a man but not too long and he never looked at the ground, always straight at me. Straight into my piercing grey eyes. Making sure I knew he was in charge, not me. I had no control. I turned myself in, making it clear I was putting my life in their hands.

“Where do we start? You came in here making a pretty big confession. Do we start from the beginning or the end? At this point it’s up to you, unless you refuse to cooperate. That’s when I’m allowed to bend the rules a little.” He smirked but quickly corrected himself and set his lips in a grim line, trying to look expressionless and patient (like any good cop would). I stared back, cocking my head to the side, contemplating, where to start.

If I chose the end, the details would be clearer. I would easily be able to recall the entire moment. Although, if I started from the beginning I could tell every event as it happened. And the details of the first one were already fading.

“I choose the end, the details are still fresh in my mind, I see his face more vivid than the others,” I answered.

“Alright, the end then, everything you know. Every sickening detail, I’m not squeamish so don’t worry about scaring me away.” he pulled his chair up sitting at the end of the table next to me, instead of across. I looked at his sharpened features in the dull light of the interrogation room thinking about how I was about to confess my worst sins.

I then began recalling the story. I was going over the plans in my head. I’d been planning this, the moment that I could feel that rush I needed so desperately. It was all mapped out in my head. I was going to the park, there are always plenty of people at a park and yet not enough. They’re all too oblivious to notice the things happening directly in front of them. People go to the park with the intention of enjoying themselves, not thinking of anything else or anyone else for that matter, that’s why it’s the perfect spot. The perfect place to find a lonely guy reading on a park bench with dark hair and mesmerizing eyes and show him what happened to me. Show him that I need him without the dominance that he feels he needs. Men don’t need to be dominant, not always. Control shouldn’t be the priority.

I packed my husband’s pocket knife into my purse and slipped into my car. I drove to the public park, the one with the most trees. I slipped out of the driver’s seat and wrapped my scarf around my neck. The fall leaves fell around me in a slight breeze under the dark cloudy sky. I smiled at my favorite time of year glad to be living in such a lovely place and I made my toward the closest bench, with a young man reading a novel.

“Pardon me, does this seat belong to anyone?” I smiled at him and gestured toward the empty half of the bench. He looked up from his book and returned my smile and shook his head, “No, I’m afraid it’s just me today,” he stated, uncrossing his legs. “Please, I wouldn’t mind company.”

“Thanks.” I sat down and turned to him, “I’m Andrea, by the way,”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Alex. It’s the perfect day isn’t it? If you like overcast skies and a quiet place, which by being here I assume we have that interest in common.” I nodded as he spoke keeping my friendly smile and looking at the features in his face. He had a rare sort of face, big framed glasses and wind touched hair. His cheeks were pink and flustered from the chilly air, as well as his nose, which was round and almost too big for his face, but it suited him. He was cute. He had dimples that you could see when he was speaking, and every bone on his face created a sharp line that made him a masterpiece. He is the one.

He’s unaware of the events about to unfold, but for the first time I actually know what I’m doing and I’m prepared.

“Are you from around here?” I questioned.

“Well, sort of. This is my hometown, but I’ve been away for college for awhile but five years later and I made it back. I’m familiar with the area, it’s nice to be home.” He gleamed as he accounted being home. He seemed truly happy to be in a place he knew.

“That’s really cool, welcome back. I live a few minutes to the east in a suburban home. I know how it feels to return to a place that’s been a home for so long, how comforting it is.” I looked back on the only time I ever tried to leave Oregon and how homesick I became after a mere week. I knew I had to return and finish school out here.

“Yeah, I mostly missed the weather and this park bench,” he chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry I’m making a weird first impression.”

“No, you’re completely fine. I’m the same way. The weather is the reason I stayed in Happy Valley. I enjoy the quiet more the rustling of the leaves and a good novel, don’t worry about being weird.” I was debating on when to strike. I was luring him into my trap and he was falling for it. He smiled with his teeth and turned his body more in my direction closing his book completely and setting it down, showing me I had his full attention.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked curiously, shifting the conversation to getting to know each other, instead of friendly chatter.

“I’m a local chef downtown. Cooking has always been a passion of mine, I just turned it into a career. What about you? You just graduated, right?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I was a business major. I work for a company in Portland, but it’s only part time right now. I’m trying to get comfortable in a routine again that doesn’t involve dorm rooms and Raman noodles.” He chuckled a low beautiful sound that came from his chest and not his throat. He looked down and ran his hand over the back of his neck as if he was embarrassed. He then slowly looked up at me and met my eyes with his dull grey irises with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. I had to admit, he reminded me of him in so many different ways.

“I understand. Forming into the world is a big adjustment.” My voice didn’t belong to me, it was barely a whisper and he kept looking from my eyes to my lips. My moment was here. I could sense his next move and I knew mine. I stuck my hand in my purse, sneaking the knife into my coat sleeve and then into my pocket.

“Yeah,” he replied just as quietly. We’d only been talking for fifteen minutes, but he’s still young, stuck in a mind that says anything’s okay after fifteen minutes of knowing a person. He started to lean in. As I began to lean forward, I removed my knife and as my lips met his, the small knife entered his gut and he reflexively looked down at the intrusion. His mouth gaped and he looked back at me with horribly wide eyes. You could tell that he didn’t believe what just happened. My body ignited with the adrenaline and the rush I got every time I took a life.

“Why? Why would you do this?” he whimpered.

“Why would the person I love ever hurt me?” I replied cold and vulnerable. Admitting the true motive of my murder. He collapsed and I retrieved the knife from his body. I got up and walked away. I didn’t clean up after myself because I was headed straight to the police to confess anyway. I’d completed what I needed to do and now the world needed to know. I needed to show them what happens when men think they have control over me. They can’t be too overbearing, take my own free will, or this happens.

I get into my car and pull out of the parking lot and drive for about ten minutes before walking into the police station. I walk in and speak to the secretary, “I need to report a crime... well four actually.” The professional woman looked up at me with a blank stare as if she gets this all the time and asks for the information. She becomes more attentive as I tell her what the crimes committed were. When I tell her they were all done by me, she immediately gets security and I’m escorted to the interrogation room.

“That about catches us up to now officer.” I state and he merely nods writing minor details on a notepad in front of him.

“Okay, what about the other three? I need the rest of them to be able to know if it was really you. But so far so good. Well, not so good for your freedom really.”

“I’ll tell you about the third one now.” I was in too deep now. No turning back, I had hit the point of no return.

The Third One

I had only a taste of what power I could have by removing a life from this world. The feeling was completely exhilarating and I wanted to feel that constantly. That was the only feeling that gave me a sense of meaning, a sense of power and control, instead of being afraid. I knew morally it was wrong and that I should probably stop now before I was in too deep. I mean this is one of the ten commandments, “Thou shalt not kill,” and yet that’s all I wanted to do. My brain told me that I’m an utter idiot and my heart told me one more time…

I could handle one more time just one and then I’d stop. I’d return to my everyday life and relinquish my freedom, giving it all to him finally. I didn’t know how or where but I knew I had to. I had to before I forgot what it felt like, how my hands rushed and my head buzzed with my heart racing and a smile on my face. Yeah, one more time. I’m already out and about, why not? I’m not losing anything.

The weapon of choice would have to be the knife I have already stolen from a restaurant. A knife seems more intimate anyway. You can literally see the life as it drains out of them, their eyes as they go from something glowing to something dark, nonexistent. I walked down the busy street of the city and looked into the buildings as I passed them. Where could I go? The club.

I could hear it before I could see it. It had been years before I had entered a club and I wasn’t sure it was the most brilliant idea I had ever had. The line was out the door and it didn’t seem to be moving very quickly. I walked to the end of the line. The person who marked the end seemed to be the exact person I was looking for. I was having such luck. He was standing alone. Probably here to pick up a girl anyway, I could just make it easier for him.

“Excuse me?” I asked, tapping him on the shoulder. He turned around and his sharp features automatically scanned my body like a robot. He was definitely on the prowl for someone tonight. A small smile played on his lips as he decided I was worthy enough to speak to.

“Yes, do you need something little lady?” he questioned, standing a little taller and a little closer to me.

“Sorry, I seem to be lost. Could you tell me which club this is?” I lied right in his face. I knew this town, I grew up here. I knew every street name every corner and every tree branch. Although, it was an easy way in.

“Well, I can’t actually answer that,” he chuckled. “You see, I know exactly what street we’re on in Portland, but I heard music and jumped in line. I was hoping to find someone... well someone like you actually.” He smiled out of one side of his mouth and rested a hand on my shoulder. He thought he was the biggest catch. He was perfect.

“Oh,” I giggled, pretending to be embarrassed but flattered. “You found me before you even made it in the building, lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” he replied lightly. “You want to get out of here? Grab a drink? This line is terribly long you see, and since I already found you I don’t see a point in waiting in it.”

I nodded. “Lead the way Mr…?”

“Call me Ben, and I’ll call you?”

“I’m Andrea, it’s nice to meet you.” He linked his arm in mine and hailed a cab. Here we go.

The Second One

The cop was scribbling something on the notebook in front of him as I finished the third one

I started in a fancy bar, drinking away the thoughts of the others, feeling more important than I was when he came up to me. He was a sweet talker. “ Lemme buy you a beer… come dance with me... you have a pretty laugh.” The music was low, and I was depressed. He was good looking enough, with brown hair and dark eyes, they poured into you, longing for company. I was longing for home, not the sick one I lived in now, but the one I fell in love with. I was sad, angry, he was here. I took up his offer for a drink, he sat down next me.

“My name is Chris.” His voice was rough, groggy, as if he’d been up for three days straight, his every word struggled to escape, yet enticed me to listen. Allowing me to interpret a hidden meaning, a lost world. “I’m Andrea,” I coaxed. “How long have you been picking up lonely girls at this place?” I gestured around the dimly lit bar that doubled as a restaurant with a chandelier hanging in the center, letting you know this was a place for people who had money; people who fit into this world easier.

He smirked and looked at me with a look that said something about not wanting to leave tonight, but it was hard to tell through the alcohol already coursing through my veins. “You’d be the first one here, but who’s counting anyway?” Part of me screamed that every part of this situation was wrong, that he was at home, my husband, waiting for me. The rest of me ignored that paranoid cry and looked back at Chris. Who was right here. Who had longing, instead of control, in his eyes. Who seemed sweet enough not to abandon me before the night was over. I let him sweet talk me, I let him convince me that staying was the logical option, the thoughts of my husband never trailing far behind.

“Where are you from, Chris?”

“Here, in Portland, I enjoy the city. The night life mainly, all the lights and the people who aren’t afraid to be people. What about you?” He had pride in his voice as he spoke of his home.

“I live in a city called Happy Valley, just a few minutes outside of here. But I’ve always loved Portland so I come here whenever I can.” He smiled at me, always using his eyes, making sure I knew he was giving me his full attention and admiration.

“Happy Valley, is it as wonderful as the name suggests? I’m assuming it must be if you live there.” Like I said, smooth talker.

“Yeah, it’s a pretty tight knit community, everyone knows everybody’s business. Although, they don’t really care.” I looked at my hands wanting to avoid a conversation about my town. “What do you do for a living?” I asked him, slowly returning my gaze to his.

“I own one of the oil rigs just outside of here. It does me pretty well.” He smirked at me looking curious. He seemed fascinated with me and I couldn’t figure out why. He had from the moment he caught my attention. He placed his arm closer to mine on the counter, a finger's length away from my own. I almost wanted his arm to touch mine. I could feel the hair on my arms prickling noticing the other person who was so close. Although I enjoyed being close, a small voice kept telling me my husband wouldn’t like this. He wouldn’t appreciate how close I was to a stranger, how this wasn’t exactly the loyalty we vowed to each other.

Those thoughts constantly begged for the upper-hand. Not wanting to be forgotten, not allowing me to enjoy myself and the opportunities that were staring me in the eyes. I drank more. The moments began to slur together creating a blurred motion. I remember him leaning in, attempting to kiss me. I giggled and leaned away, regaining my space and resetting the boundaries I needed for my mind to remain calm. I didn’t need his control, I needed my own. I needed to make my own decisions and make every move, before I felt controlled.

I thought about excusing myself, leaving now before I was in too deep. I was becoming paranoid. He kept forgetting the boundaries I set, trying to move them. I finally began to rise, ready to exit, “Are you leaving now?” he seemed worried. As if he had wasted time with me and the progress he’d made and didn’t want that to be thrown away. He sat up, appearing to look taller in his chair. My mind began arguing with itself again. I needed to go home, but I didn’t want to go home. He wanted me to stay, but did I want to stay?

He was good looking enough, charming enough. He made the dark bar a little bit brighter with the way he spoke. “No,” I decided then, “I just need to use the restroom.” I walked away, breathing rapidly for no reason other than the anxiety I had was surfacing in the decision that made me tentative. I looked in the mirror convincing myself that he wouldn’t be too mad if I stayed for just a little bit longer. I’m married and I’m insisting on staying with this charming man. It a terrifying thought, to be dishonest to the man I love, but it’s been a hard day. I deserved a free drink. I washed my hands and left the bathroom returning to Chris who was beaming at me. I mustered a small smile back.

“Are you hungry? We can eat.” He gestured a waiter over asking for two steaks and their finest red wine. He never gave me the option to answer him. I swayed between comfortable and wary all night. Some things he said made me feel safe next him and others made me shy away. I was battling myself. When he laughed, I felt comfortable enough to laugh, and his smile was so captivating I couldn’t help but reciprocate that emotion. When our food arrived, we ate in mostly silence with the occasional mindless conversation passing between us. He kept sending compliments. My eyes were beautiful, I’m pretty, witty, interesting, he told me all of these things, and his eyes were gleaming. We ate slowly, drank with the intention of staying here. Though, every so often, he would make the smallest, slyest comment of how I should go home with him. I would merely chuckle and brush it off continuing the conversation in a different direction. I allowed myself to become hazy, the edges not too clear and reality almost fantastical. I was off the wall drunk. So was he. The more drunk he became, the more he wanted to leave. Once I finished my steak, he slipped the due money and tip on the table then slipped his hand in mine. “Let’s go,” he whispered against my ear, more breath than word. I then stood up wary of the whispered command and prepared myself for the worst.

Just before we left the counter I slipped the steak knife off the table, sliding it into my back pocket. I was uneasy, I’m always uneasy. We stopped outside and he looked into my eyes smiling. I relaxed a little bit. The way he was looking at me was like a long lost memory had been found. He ran his hand along the back of his neck looking down at the ground. All the confidence he’d possessed throughout the night had left. He seemed vulnerable. He’d try and steal a small glance from me here or there. I almost wanted to stay the whole night, the way he was subconsciously making me more intoxicated than the alcohol ever could. He finally looked at me, stood a little taller and ran his hand down my forearms, grasping my hands.

“Come home with me.” There was no question, no please. Not even a hint of my own agency laced in his words. Just a simple statement. The single statement that made me regret staying, regret thinking this was a good idea. I pulled away, looking anywhere except his face. I was apprehensive to respond, to react. He tried to lift my chin so he could meet my eyes, still I pulled away. Feeling myself slip away, becoming distant as I usually am. “Have I said something wrong?” He seemed puzzled. He bent down so he could see my eyes. He was trying to reach a wall at this point. Yes, obviously something was wrong. Then, he grabbed my hand and pulled me behind him. “Come back with me and we can talk for awhile.” What if I don’t want to go home with you? Why is he insisting? I struggled for moment, trying to stay where I was before he turned around and said the magic word, “Please.” That’s what his mouth said, but his eyes had that dark look in them. He didn't mean it. I'd seen this before. He was purposely trying to win me over with words so he could get what he wants, he was being a guy.

“I'm sorry, I can't…” I pulled away more, backing up into a wall, making it clear I was completely uncomfortable. He ignored my body language, ignored my verbal cue for him to leave. He encroached on my personal space, taking advantage of the fact that I was against a wall.

“I thought you would come with me.” I felt his breath on my neck, giving me goosebumps. I avoided his eyes and he tried to meet mine, resting his hand on my forearm. I tried to pull away, asking him to stop under my breath. He moved his hand to my waist and I lost it. I didn’t realize what had happened until it was too late. He was lying on the ground, unmoving, not even the rise and fall of his chest. His nice navy blue collared shirt was drenched in blood. The source of the blood came from his neck where there was a horizontal line that had been cleanly cut. I felt something in my hand, and when I looked down I realized it was the steak knife I had taken for precaution, the blade covered in the same blood that covered the cement. I had killed this man. I had killed him and I wasn’t even aware that I had done it. The initial shock made me feel as though I was a sick monster. I killed another human being. Then I noticed the adrenaline coursing through my veins and realized I liked this. I enjoyed the way this felt. He was the second one and although he was still an accident he made me realize I wanted this feeling more. This was a natural high for me, a sign that I had power somewhere.

The Realization

“You’re at four murders,” the cop said leaning forward, “but you ran in claiming there were five.” I sat puzzled, trying to remember the last one, if there was a last one, desperately reaching for details that continued to slip away as I almost caught them. My brow furrowed and I looked at the table muttering, trying to fit the pieces in the puzzle.

“Could you explain to me the miscount in murders? You don’t seem like the type that would lie about that,” he pressed. Something in his voice sounded almost... familiar. I couldn’t quite place it. The way he was sitting. I knew someone who sat exactly like that. I was confused. I’d never met this man before today, had I?

“I’m sorry officer.” I was shaking my head in frustration. I could’ve sworn there were five murders. There had to be, there’s no way I counted that wrong. How does someone miscount how many people she’s killed? My brow furrowed, “I must’ve counted wrong, although that doesn’t seem very likely.” I was reaching for a memory of a murder that wasn’t there, every time I got close to the answer it slipped away a little bit further.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I know if it’s there it will come to you soon.” I looked at him, straight into his eyes.

“Did you just call me sweetheart?” He looked back at me with the amount of confusion on his face that I was feeling. I knew immediately that he had not called me sweetheart and that I’m now hearing things. How wonderful is that? As moments passed, it seemed more and more likely that I had simply counted wrong. How ridiculous of me. What a horrible murderer I am if I can’t even keep track of the number of people killed at my hand.

“I wouldn’t call you sweetheart if I had just met you and you were telling me you had killed several people, would I?” He questioned, but it was an empty question; he knew the answer. His eyes were so mysterious and his posture was something I knew better than the back of my hand. How did I not know him? I had to know. Everything he said, every way that he moved, I knew it. It was like my home... Oh. He was my home, for a long time now, he had been my home.

It was him. This wasn’t a cop, this was my husband. There was a reason he was so familiar. The uniform faded away and his usual t-shirt and jeans came into focus, his scruffy hair, his smirk. “You solved the puzzle honey, I’m proud of you.” This was the man I fell in love with. Not the abusive man I’ve lived with for five years. I felt my eyes well up with tears. I fell in love with him, this person. The sarcastic, beautiful man who never wanted me to cry, who only wanted my happiness. He wasn’t really here, I didn’t think so at least. That man left a while ago. He turned into someone who was controlling and brutal the majority of the time, who had me on a very short leash, just the way he liked it.

“Why is this happening to me?” I whispered to him, feeling every once of the question bury itself into my being. The dim lights of the interrogation room turned into the lights of my own kitchen, the metal table into my rustic wood dining table. He sat next to me.

“Nothing is happening to you, you’ve always been this way and it’s not your fault. Not entirely.” He rested his hand on mine and put his free arm around my shoulders. “Now, do you remember what happened?” I looked into his eyes and began to sob covering my mouth and I nodded. He gave me a soft knowing smile, like he’d know this all along. The warmth of his body fading away, he wasn’t really there. He wasn’t really there, because I killed him. I killed him because he killed me. All I wanted was to be madly in love with him again, that’s all I wanted I didn’t want the endless pain that our marriage had become. I wanted him to love me the way he did when we first met, when we were dating, when he thought I was the brightest star in the universe. So, I killed the man he had become. Part of me thought that if I killed that man, the old one would return, even though that made absolutely no sense. I just wanted him the way I remembered him... that’s all. Though, that’s not possible. That was merely a shadow of the entire man he was. When I met him, he was a crescent. When we married, he became the full moon. And I was the wolf howling below to the love I could never have.

The sobbing wouldn’t stop, my body convulsing me staring at the table. I needed to remember. I didn’t want to relive that. I forced myself to remember the details of what happened, how it happened. What I had done.

The First One

I remember the first time I looked at him, the way it felt. Like suddenly everything would be okay even if it was hard. As if us seeing each other, really seeing, opened a door of opportunity for us. He looked like something out of a movie, he was dreamy. His eyes were always the thing that I found myself staring at for way too long. They were sea green and full of mystery. He was taller than me, by at least a foot which isn’t hard because I’m not exactly tall... or average for that matter. He caught me on his hook and he made no sign that he wanted to let me off of it. I wanted to know all of his secrets, what made him tick, what made him sad. I wanted to be his with no return to a reality that didn’t involve him. He always wanted to be around me the entire time we dated. Anytime I was home and he wasn’t there, he made it known that he wanted to be. He wanted to insert himself in my life and I wanted to absorb him. We were truly obsessed, and it was utterly disgusting to anyone who didn’t understand. He was everything i was looking for and I couldn’t believe he was sticking around. I’d always been insecure that no one would stay because I’m too plain and too lost in fantasy worlds. But everyday he reminded me that it would only be me, for as long as he lived. I remember thinking that it could never go wrong. That the two of us fit like puzzle pieces and nothing could ruin that, or destroy it. He was so sweet, I always knew he cared because he always made an effort to show me. Every date we went on he brought me flowers, every chance he had he told me he cared.

He was everything I ever wanted and I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t afraid of falling or of letting go, because I knew he’d always catch me.

When he proposed to me I didn’t give it a second thought. I knew we were made for each other and that nothing could change, ever. I knew he was as madly in love with me, as I was with him. I wanted to spend eternity over eternity with him and never look back.

Every day up until the end of the honeymoon was so beautiful. He kept under the impression that he was the most amazing man in the universe, and that I was the luckiest girl. That’s how it’s supposed to feel right?

But then I got too comfortable. I expected a fall, but instead was stabbed. It was more painful than a fall ever could be. He took the opportunity to hurt me. It started small. He was demanding about some things. He had to have everything the way he wanted, or he’d be mad. I never imagined what him being mad looked like, and I didn’t want to. He was always too sweet for me to even think about it. The first time I saw him that way, I was so upset, I was scared. Suddenly, he wasn’t everything I wanted. It would escalate so quickly, he’d be perfect and loving, but then he’d notice a spot on the counter and become distant. He’d call me worthless and forget that he loved me for moments at a time. Then, he’d come home from work and yell at me for not finishing the tasks he had set out for me. If everything was wrong, he’d even hit me sometimes.

On the good nights, I was subtly reminded of why I stayed. He’d brush a piece of my hair out my face, cup my cheek in his hand and simply state that he loved me. I was his fragile doll, he cared about my maintenance, he cared about my beauty. To him I was material, and I was too blind to notice it. The way I looked, the way I was available to him whenever he needed anything. He loved that.

But even so, the small acts. When he was tired and wanted someone and nuzzled against me. When I would catch him looking at me out of the corner of my eye. That would make it all okay. I could handle it then. With his deep green eyes pouring into me for small moments, melting me. I loved him too. I always had. I never left.

Then there was that day, the day I finally lost it. I was crying. I was upset, because I felt alone. I felt alone and he was home, he was upstairs. I shouldn’t feel alone if the person I care about the most is seconds away, right? This wasn’t a new developing feeling though. It was continuously nagging me in the darkest part of my mind. I thought about waking him up. Telling him. He was my best friend I could tell him, right? I was too afraid to wake him, though. I knew what would happen if I did and I didn’t want to face it at that moment. I was already constantly asking and looking for reassurance that he still cared, in some way.

The hitting was so bad now. Almost every night. He was going through a rough time at work, I knew that. I knew it wasn’t me. But it still bothered me. I wanted the person I first met. But he didn’t come around much anymore, that guy was busy, pleasing his company. Any excuse to take it out on me was inevitable. There’s a spoon in the sink, I’m hit. There’s a towel next to the stove, I’m shoved. It turned from verbal to physical when the company started to have it’s downfall. Which took any emotional toll on me. I did everything robotically. I scrubbed like a maid and tried to make sure everything stayed the way he wanted it. But the toll was making me soft, there were holes in everything I did. And I was tired, oh so tired. Just run down. Every night, a terrible fear rose in my belly. I was anxious. But I resisted the panic attacks that would try to escape.

I was scared to live in my own house and I was realizing how pathetic that was, how a person should feel at home in a place they made for themselves. I didn’t, I felt useless. he made sure to remind me everyday, explaining how I never did anything. How I just moped around the house, always sad, always unreliable. It tore me apart. I felt unappreciated. I was constantly thinking that I was the one who should do better; how I was wrong. Because he was right, obviously he was right. I’ve been debating about taking my own life for awhile. It would be easier. I wouldn’t be a burden, and I wouldn’t feel horrible any longer. I then grabbed a knife from the counter, intending to slit my own wrists, ready for it end. The pain, the awfulness that I believed was love. Hitting wasn’t love, telling me I was worthless wasn’t love. And I wasn’t love-able. That’s when he lazily came downstairs. yawning, as handsome as he always is. His hair scruffy and a mess from sleeping. Morning had always been a pleasant time with him. But not anymore. I was so tired. I was so close, I wasn’t going to stop now.

I hated him. He was the reason for all my pain. The reason I sat in front of this sink with a knife in my hand. He saw me and I saw a wave of panic crossed his eyes. He started to plead with me, from across the room. He was being sweet. Calling me nice names. He was asking me to put it down, because he loved me? Because he truly cared about me? It felt like lies. I could feel them piercing into me like needles. The tears continued to stream forcefully down my face, but I made no sound. He begged me, it almost seemed real. He then made the mistake of trying to approach me, not realizing he was the reason. He was slowly coming into focus as the one who made me this way. This hollow body of nothing. No feeling left in me to fight my instinct. I didn’t even think about my actions as they rolled out of me. The knife redirected from my wrists to the bottom of his ribcage.

He walked closer, he was calm. He was reaching a hand out, coaxing me, reassuring me. I didn’t want to be reassured. I didn’t want to stay in this constant horror of a life with him. Or even with me. He got too close and I lodged the knife in his body. I knew it was what I wanted to do, but I was startled. Shock filled his eyes, then terror, as the blood soaked his t-shirt. As he begged and pleaded with me, asking why I would do this. He asked me if I loved him. I looked at his eyes, for what was most likely the last time and feebly whispered, “Of course I love you, it’s me I don’t love,” but I wasn’t sorry. I knew this was something I had to do.

That’s when the sobbing started, the hurt sounds, the confusion. I melted to the ground with him. He lay in a pool of blood, groaning. Asking for help, for an ambulance. I ignored him. I slowly let the life drain from his body.

I rolled into a fetal position, looking at him as an enemy, as a lover, as a friend, as an abuser, for the last time. I looked at him as a person. This wasn’t what I had wanted. I just needed it to stop, and it still didn’t feel as if it had. The pain, the excuses, my own thoughts. It was ongoing. The pain in waves crashing over my body again and again and again. I pleaded with myself, allowing it to end. For something magical to happen, where I felt like me again. When I was whole, and a person. I lost him. But I also lost me.

That was it. I felt so hollow as if all of these events meant nothing. What was the point? It still hurt, but I showed it less. Now I sit at the kitchen table staring at his lifeless body next to me, disoriented, tired, not understanding reality, trying to remember the truth. I was crazy, that was the only thing I was completely sure of.

How does it work?
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Alyssa Martin

I like to write in my spare time, sometimes to reflect on my feelings and other times to create a story. I’ve always found a good mystery thriller quite fascinating and I tend to write a lot of murder stories. I hope you enjoy them! 

See all posts by Alyssa Martin