I don't know if you all remember my little psychotic break a few months back. In one of my entries I mentioned killing a person by means of various gaping wounds inflicted with a steak knife. Apparently that was written in a moment of lucidity. Huh.
James and I were cleaning out the garage this weekend and we found a bag of bones. Now normally we're very good about not having bones just lying around our home so we assume it's from my little...episode. We also found marks in some of the bones consistent with the murder I described.
We think I lured someone home, killed them, skinned them, disposed of the organs somehow (garburator?) and then stored the bones in the garage intending to get rid of them but didn't get around to it. I just don't remember any of it.
Which is a damn shame because that's really cool. I hate not knowing anything about my victims. It feels so impersonal.
After we dumped a couple bones in the river, gave one to the neighbour's dog, and buried a few more in the local park, my lovely husband and I started our sleuthing. We made sure the skull was somewhere it would be found with most of the teeth in fact. We're hoping it's enough for a forensic pathologist to give the police more details than we have. This is so complicated.
Merry fucking Christmas
So much for setting up the tree this weekend.
As always, dear readers,