by Maria Trudalidi

Created on: October 22, 2009

When it feels as if your life depends on it, as if without a certain action you'd be robbed of pleasure for the rest of your existence, you rarely hesitate.
So I didn't.
I had that urge. The urge to save myself from that savage desire.
That's why I killed him.
My husband.

Why would people try to take other people's lives away? Everyone wonders. Even me. And I'm whom you'd call a murderer.

It's satisfying.
In a sick way, it's fun. Interesting.
The adrenaline is pumped. You look nervous, shaky, sweaty, but inside yourself, you're completely calm because you know it's the thing you just have to do. It doesn't make it a right thing. But, mind you, it does not make it wrong. You feel intrigued. You feel happy, somewhere deep inside, because even saints sometimes wish they had the power to strip another of the most valuable natural possession. You feel insane. Because there's a voice inside your head that says it's wrong. The saints hear it above their own wishes. We agree with it, but do the deed anyway.
I call that voice God.
You don't feel guilty. Not at first, anyhow.
I never did.
You feel what some might refer to as naughty. You feel like you've taken something that didn't belong to you. Which, in a way, you have.
That makes me a thief.
But, to me, it was no theft.
He married me, I married him. We vowed to never wrong another until death do us part. So it did just that.
Whoever said you had to wait for death to come?
Why couldn't you just invite it?
Or, better yet, why couldn't you take it's place?
I mean, it's what we all do, in the end. It's not some thin black figure looming in the shadows that takes your life. Your heart stops. You drown. You fall off a bridge. You get in a wreck. You get addicted.
It' can be simple, like falling asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time.
So why do we blame the figure concealed by darkness?
Is it not us who take the first drag on a cigarette? Is it not our own fault we've strayed into the wrong part of the water? That we let ourselves become so old, or so unhealthy, or so depressed, that the heart slowly stops? That our eyes stray away from the road? That we don't look where we step, that we don't watch what goes in our mouth, that we talk to the wrong people?

So I chose to be his death.
And I don't regret it.


It all started soon after I met him.
The spark. The flutter in my chest.
As a teenage girl, I always swore I'd never fall in love. I was hoping that I'd never have to rely on another for my own happiness. For a while, I even

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