15

The door slams. The curtains shut. The screaming starts.

The sound of vehicles crashing into each other can be heard, just like the night we met.

I turn and he glares, marching toward me with a clenched fist.

But he won't dare.

He does it, anyway.

A punch and I'm down, shocked and enraged.

"You fucking prick!" I shout, triggering him again.

I stand tall, balancing myself and grabbing the vase behind me. He swings at me but I smash the vase against his skull. He collapses and I laugh.

"What are you going to do? Hit me again? Abuse me like you always have?!"

"STOP!" He scolds and slowly stands, gripping the side of the small, round table to the right of the entry door. "You know what you are?" He raises his head and slowly forms a smile. "You're a fucking whore." He gradually makes his way toward me, my figure shaking. "You're a desperate slut." He finally stops once he's only a few centimeters away from me. My eyes widen and I gulp down his rough words. "You're an ugly bitch."

My heart stops.

The world finally stops spinning.

The ambulance has arrived but the men in the vehicles are deceased.

The sky is upside down.

I am no longer myself anymore.

I am sad. I am angry. I am crazy.

I am torn. I am furious.

I am no longer young & beautiful.

Step One: Take Him Out.

I grab a sharp, leftover piece of the broken vase and stare him right in in the eye as I slowly cut deep into my left arm. My husband hates the mere sight of blood. Ironic considering the number of times he made me bleed. He quickly fled from the house those moments, not wanting to catch a glimpse of the red fluid on his floors.

My husband gulps down resistance as he looks at the substance, clenching his fist and shutting his eyes. And before he knew it, I grabbed a metal rod from the inside of a drawer and rapidly made a mark on his skull, leaving him unconscious.

Step Two: Clean.

Clean the whole scene, clean any evidence of my involvement, and clean his disgusting clothes.

Step Three: The Call.

Make a call for a special someone to come and pretend to be my husband taking specific things from the garage.

Before their arrival, make marks on the husband's wrists, showing his beforehand suicidal actions.

Once they arrive, pay them to do what I want with the "hidden" camera I have. Then, say my goodbyes to them.

Step Four: The Suicide.

Tie a rope around my husband's neck and hang him from the ceiling fan in the living room. Again, clean any evidence of my involvement. Then, call the police, screaming.

Yes, I killed my husband because of one word.

I killed my husband because of what he said out of complete rage and madness.

I killed my husband because of the fear of losing my life-lasting title.

I killed my husband because of the risk of losing being young & beautiful.

I killed my husband because he called me ugly.