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.