Annie was right. Murder was addicting. It had started innocently enough. Just a bit of oleander in the tea. A man with a weak heart — it happens all the time. People hardly even blink when they hear tell of it.
It was so very liberating! To have that level of control! To actually Play God…er…Goddess, amazing! The possibilities filled her brain. All the Agatha Christie novels she had read, all the murder mysteries she had attended, every single episode of Sherlock Holmes she had sat through. They were all in there — all the murderers and all their mistakes.
She would do better. She would contrive The Perfect Crime. Her victims would never see it coming. Her MALE victims. She was, after all, an avid feminist and killing men off just added to the joi de vivre of the whole experience!
She would not get caught. The most important part. Unsolved Murder. If they were even clever enough to realize it was murder!
Oh — she became nearly giddy when she thought about it. Her dark side creeping carefully out from the shadows and tiptoeing into the light of day.
She wondered about the serial killer Dexter — if this was how he got started? But no — she knew about cleaning up messy murder scenes and frankly — that was way too much effort. She would not take that road.
Clean, efficient, tidy. Yes — that appealed to the OCD which still ruled her life.
Murder needed to be…Neat. Respectful. Dignified. After all — she was a Lady, not a barbarian. There were standards to be upheld, even in this. Men never suspect The Lady — an added bonus of maintaining her composure and not giving in to baser instincts.
With these thoughts foremost in her mind, she brewed a cup of chamomile tea, added a bit of honey and sat down in her study. As she opened her laptop she quickly perused the most current list of victims with a smile.
“Alrighty, then My Sweets. Who shall die tonight?”
She thoughtfully began typing out the fate of some poor unlucky chap.
Miles away, a man’s throat became scratchy and his breathing became labored. He slowly realized that something he ate must have contained the shellfish he was mortally allergic to. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone to call 911. Upstairs, his wife never heard his struggle. She was tending to the broken rib she had received in the latest beating. Later, she would find his lifeless body by the front door, cell phone in hand. Luckily for her, the man prided himself on his skill and ability to never leave any marks that could be seen. His brutality was a well-guarded secret just between the two of them.
The Writer knew though. And she wrote him out of the story. Just. Like. That.
© Ann Litts 2019