Or so they say. I have always been a proponent of the rational mind. It was an ongoing mental exercise to plot the murder of one whom I thought had no value at all in the world, not to me, not to anyone, including herself. But I was wrong.
She should have been easy to kill if my assessment of her worth had been accurate. But she was anything but easy, while she lived and afterwards. No, I cannot say that I have a guilty conscience. I very much doubt that I have any conscience at all. In a way I am glad that I took her life. Who else can say that he killed someone without anger to spur him on, or remorse to stop him? I am proud of my achievement.
What a waste she was. To think that in my own pitiful state of mind, I was able to pity her as well. Through the waves of self-pity, I must have seen her suffering as being as noble as mine. No wonder I clung to her like she was a part of me. A cancerous growth as it were.
I went to lengths I once thought of as extraordinary to plan my dastardly deed (I snicker in sinister pride when I recall.) I scoured maps for easily accessible, yet secluded areas in which to dispose of the body, at least temporarily. I studied and memorized every bend and curve, every stone and stump of a certain piece of land which I shall not allude to any further. I located a spot in a dense thicket, hidden from view from every angle, and dug a six-foot deep hole in preparation. I practiced at digging and refilling, and covering up the grave, and of disposing of the tools. I made certain that I could lug a heavy dead weight into the thicket, without being seen. Disposal, for the moment, was feasible.
Acquisition was the most difficult of my problems. How could I have my victim agree to follow me without anyone knowing? Simply, my powers of persuasion, and the fact that she probably would trust me, would suffice.
Secretly living in my wife's closet: the musings of a closet transvestite. Adult content.
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