It was easy, once I’d decided to kill him.
Having something to focus on gives shape to your days.
You don’t need to worry about anything else. Shopping in Shanghai, drinking mojitos in Havana,
eating custard apples in Hanoi, trying on jewellery in Jaipur, walking about Damascus maybe, thinking of you.
Or reading every book on poison in the London Library.
Writing is prophesy.
Don’t write anything unless you want it to come true.
Don’t say it out loud even in the dark. Because I can’t afford to make a mistake. One slip and you’re dead.
Why am I whispering?
The words have been written in my diary.
Writing things down is dangerous. Ink can’t be erased
without leaving a mess behind. Now he has to die. It’s just a question of how and when.
Like a detective story with a killer and a victim but no plot. God isn’t in the details, He’s in the structure.
None of this shows on the surface yet. My face is the same even when I say the words out loud three times with the full moon staring me out. Kill him kill him kill him.
It’s best that way.
Best for me, anyway.
He doesn’t suspect.
I don’t think he suspects. You can never be sure what
someone else is thinking. After all, he trusts me and I’m planning his murder.
I assumed he’d carry on playing the same part, the adoring husband who travels for work but always comes home, the role he’s been acting to perfection for years.
That was my first mistake.
© Carole Morin