James has told me that he wants to send me to a psychiatric hospital for an examination.
I should be surprised but honestly I'm not. He's put up with a lot in our time together: false arrests, emotional stress brought on by a close call, the time I tried to kill his mother – I still maintain that she tried to stick an ice pick in her own back – but he has always looked out for me. He's been worried wash the blood away, keep the blood away, mustn't let him see how much she enjoys red in the past but he's never been scared. And he's terrified now. He's always understood; why I do this, little Sally wants to play a game; left ear, right ear, left ear, right ear, why I can't get caught. In the seven years I've known James he has done everything in his power to stick a needle in her eyes, cut around the eyelids, never sleep until they're dead protect me from the world that would have me in chains for the things I do. And now, he wants me to give myself up don't blink or you'll never wake up freely to that world. I hate to say it but I'm sorely tempted. What else is there for me to do? Slice the little darlings’ throats with a butterknife. My kids won't go near me, I'm going to run out of excuses why I'm not at work; and my husband.
Do you know who I am, asked the vision in red. I am you when you don't breathe in the scent of me; of death. The last time he slept on the couch was the first year we were married. We'd gotten into this huge fight about…why don't you ask the little slut why she did while he slept on the couch. Her hands are tainted. Tainted how he had to find a new mechanic because I'd drowned ours in motor oil. It seemed so important then but now? what now, little Sally asked, holding the knife to her mother’s throat and pressing down. I'm starting to long for those days.
If I don't get my fix soon, I'm going to do it. I'm going to check myself in.
I can't do this anymore.