Some Things Never Change: A Book Dedicated to Absolutely Nothing At All

Kill That Mother Fucker

I'd wanted him dead long before he beat me. He was a useless piece of shit that I couldn't be rid of quick enough. He'd slapped me a few times here and there, but nothing too horrible. Then it led to arguments. And then, he beat me for a few minutes. I'd been hospitalized, where he told nurses I'd fallen down a flight of stairs. I agreed blindly, building a plan to kill this bastard. I was given pain pills and sent home, with a fractured jaw, black eyes, and bruises all over my face. At home, he left me alone, took his keys, grabbed his wallet and left. I slipped some rope under my side of the mattress, wrapped a baseball bat in the drapes next to the bed, put a kitchen knife under my pillow, and started preparations. We had an attic, with a large open space near the back. The plan was to knock him into a daze with the bottle of pain meds and tie him up in the attic with heavy rope, and bind him to the many fasteners in the support beams. Then, just wait out his little nap. Then he'd pay after he woke up. It was simple, but flawed. I had rope, I had a route planned for where to drag him up stairs, but I needed timing. I'd make a batch of margueritas, his favorite cocktail, and lace his glass with the powdered pills. I crushed up a handful of the Vicadin tablets, making sure the powder would stick. I dipped the glass in squeezed lime juice, then dipped it into salt. I carefully sprinkled the powder onto the rim, leaving some in the bottom of the glass. I poured both drinks, my glass red, his green, and left his with a note. "I have a surprise for you in the bedroom. ;)" I took my glass of happiness and sat alone on the couch, planning for what to do with the body. I could force his corpse through the wood chipper outside. We were far enough away so nobody would hear. Then, sprinkle the remains in the woods, under cover of leaves, for the mushrooms and maggots to feast upon. An hour went by, midnight quickly approaching, and headlights pierced the darkened living room. The engine roared to announce my husband return, and quickly died, a door opening and then crashing closed. Footsteps, heavy and dumb all the way to the front door. A key turned, then the knob, as I dashed into the bedroom, grabbing the heavy sledgehammer I'd hidden by the door. I heard the door slam, the lock snapping closed by the retarded hand of a drunk. I heard a muffled tone of surprise, a gulp, a broken cocktail glass, and then a shout of excitement. Footsteps neared, crossed the living room with heavy, dull thuds, then slower, duller, heavier, until the door slid open, and that rotten, putrid bastard of a man slipped in, closing the door smoothly. I could see his outline, even in the dark, and made out his head. He sat on the bed, hunching over to take off his boots, I crept closer, and raised the hammer, and as he brought his head back up to stretch, the hammer whistled through the darkness, hitting home. It hit his head, driving it downward, breaking his teeth with the shock of impact. I lifted, but needed not to swing a second time. He was unconscious, hopefully dead, but, to my unhappiness, he was alive. I dragged him through the short hallway connecting to the staircase, and began to drag him up. His head hit every step, to my delight, as I dragged him. His body popped this way and that as they hit each step, jiggling his arms.  I stood him up, dragging only his feet, as I hoisted him up the ramp and into the attic. I brought him to where the rope was already hitched, ready for someone to confine. He never struggled as I wrapped his wrists with rope, tightening and knotting until he couldn't possibly come loose. It wasn't until I heard creaks from behind me that I got nervous. I turned to investigate, when something heavy slammed against my temple, knocking me into blackness. I woke up a few hours later, cold, lonely, and still in this attic. I tried to stand, but was unsuccessful, and my broken legs wouldn't have much effect anyways. I crawled to the ramp, pushing it open, and sliding down onto the second floor landing, mere feet from the stairs. I slid down easily, gasping as I landed hard on the damp ground...outside? When did I get outside? Confused, I stood up.....with my broken legs?....and walked into the nurse's station to get my daily meds. After all, I was here for my own good. It was my fault I was here in the first place. If I hadn't killed Jeremy and his friend, I'd be home right now......sitting on the couch thinking, "When is Jeremy going to be home?" No, I'd probably still want to kill that son of a bitch.

*Note: I got bored writing this, so I improvised near the end. It turned out ok, I guess. Anyways, peace