How To Get Away With Murder

How To Murder

Insanity's grip is tighter than that of these gloves on my wife's neck. It's not how I wanted things to be and not how I pictured things to end. A lifetime's anger can be released in one minute of rage. With every gasp of air, a tear was shed from her face. And with a final squeeze , the life that once meant the world to me was now another corpse to be set in a wooden box.

Alas! Had I been nimble, I would have used the slash of a knife. Had I been nimble I would have used a pillow. But if I were simpleminded, I would call the police. I would call the police and play the innocent, but the evidence is clear on my hands. If I were simpleminded the woods would hold my wife's fresh body but even the insane know that that holds risks.

There only lied one option: Lay the blame on a man ignorant like I once was. I grabbed the biggest knife to my disposal and returned to cut my wife's neck. Arteries were severed and bones were crushed. I was now left with the head of the corpse with bone and all. I threw her mind across the room. It served no purpose. I needed the knife and a "suspect" in this case. And I knew who it'd be.

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My wife and I met at the ripe age of 27. Both studying to become forensic scientists, we enjoyed each other's company. We both chose careers and married soon after at the age of 30. My career led me to be a medical examiner and taking that career caused the greatest upset in my life.

Bodies and bodies arrived for inspection every day. Death by unusual suicide, death in car accident, death became a numbing one syllable word that simply meant "no life" to me. The corpses became more and more grotesque. Missing eyes, missing limbs, burned bodies, the bodies were once grotesque but soon became shells of what was once alive. And every crustacean knows that old shells come with new shells. Each death became a statistic in my head. A memory in the back of my mind's inventory.

At first it ached to see these bodies. My first corpse was that of a small girl at the age of 8. Being the only survivor of a car accident, she called 911 with a tremor and small sniffles. Medics arrived but she lied dead with blood dripping from her mouth. After examination it was determined that it was not a suspicious death and she died from a piece of debris impaling an artery in her heart. She died 30 seconds after the call.

What I saw shall never leave my eyes. A pale body of a girl with blue eyes, black hair, and blood turning her clothing into red on a winter wonderland. With a tight grip that did not falter even in death, she held on to the cellphone used during her call. Freckles of blood were littered upon her face and it was later found that she was not the owner of that blood.

I never forget that first face. One of lifeless acceptance of death. I never forget that first incision into her chest. The fear, the pain, the guilt, the disgust. All felt in the matter of seconds. She was cremated after the investigation turned up nothing. Her ashes were spread in the family's backyard. I was invited to the ceremony but I politely declined.

The trauma was clear on my face. And my trauma brought great offense and displeasure to my wife. "I'm sorry you had to see such things," she'd say. "But it's your business and job." She'd give me a peck on the lips and a cuddle for the night. I would smile but it meant nothing.