Wednesday, 30 December 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 12/30/15

I’m worried about my mother.

I never thought I would say that.

She’s always been so sure. Even though there are days that I can’t handle her and days when I can’t understand what the hell goes through her head, she has always been opinionated and confident and loud. This was the quietest and most uncomfortable Christmas since my father caught my sister fooling around with the neighbour’s son under the Christmas tree.

We burnt the tree skirt.

Unfortunately this visit was not as entertaining for me.

My parents showed up at 9pm on Christmas Eve, dropped their coats in the front doorway and went to bed. I’m not exaggerating that much. My mother didn’t stick around long enough to greet Jason in the kitchen and the only exchange I had with my father was to ask if the bathroom was clean enough for him to use. The two of them were in the bedroom with the door closed within ten minutes of arriving.

I was up at 6 the next morning to start preparing lunch – James and I agreed to eat in the afternoon so we could spend as much time with my sister – and my mother was already sitting there drinking coffee. So I asked her: where’s my sister?

“Oh, I assumed you were picking her up this morning.”

What the fuck, mom?

I wasn’t in the mood to argue, I just wanted to see my sister, so I hopped in the car and drive for three hours on Christmas Day to pick up my sister from prison. Meanwhile, I left my husband and brother to fend for themselves as my parents woke up and invaded my home. I made it up to them later. I don’t think Jason has really forgiven me.

After I filled out all the paperwork, I got to see my sister. For the first time in forever I got to hug my sister. I’ve missed her. I wish she hadn’t been released. It hit me hard: seeing her again, getting to talk with her without a piece of metal between us. Having to let her go at the end of the day was rough.

It didn’t help that my mother was distractingly uncharacteristic.

We talked all the way back home and caught up on our lives for the last few months. I apologized for Sandra but assured her that her killer was brought to a slow and painful justice. Back home, the boys were very respectful and very efficient, preparing Christmas dinner/lunch for six, ignoring my mother’s scathing remarks.

James was kind enough to text me bits of their conversation as it was happening. Everything from: “don’t peel the potatoes that way” to “so what is it that you exactly do” to – my personal favourite – “you see like a nice man, why did you marry my daughter?”

I don’t know what his response was to that but my sister’s response was something about being great in the sack and “oh my god, mom, they’ve been married for seven years, why are you asking these questions now?” I realized that this was the first time my husband and my mother have been alone together.

I’ve been very careful about keeping those two apart for fear that one of them will say something they can’t take back. My money was on my mother but who knew it’d be James?

James didn’t respond after that last text so I didn’t know what to expect when we walked into the house. It was intensely silent. I feared for someone’s life. But they were all there, safe and sound, setting the table and cleaning the kitchen like a normal functioning family. Mother and James refused to speak to each other all throughout dinner – which was delicious; my boys did a fantastic job. Jason spent a lot of dinner asking my sister questions and answering hers.  Without Sandra’s influence, I think he was curious about his mother and her life. All he’s known about her since he was twelve is what I’ve told him and what his grandmother has tried to tell him. I don’t think he ever knew what to believe.

I haven’t seen my sister smile that much in decades, I swear. Being with Jason really…it brought a lightness to her that I think she needed.

My father was silent throughout dinner. James assured me that he did his obligatory walk-through inspection of the house and made a list of the areas that needed to be tended to. Most of it was in the basement and laundry room – I just haven’t had a chance to meticulously clean so I couldn’t blame him for putting it on the list. He didn’t put the kid’s rooms on the list and I was so grateful. Normally he’ll do a sweep of the upper floors and remind Jason to make his bed every day and tell Sandra that she needs to keep her desk tidy. But he didn’t this year. I haven’t touched Sandra’s room. I think I said I was going to but I haven’t been able to. I’ll have to eventually – I  can’t leave it there forever but maybe not right now.

When my father is silent, I don’t worry; it’s my mother that concerns me. I know that she had James had some sort of fallout but I don’t know what it was over. Whatever happened, it must have been big to make her ignore bother daughters at once. That’s rare indeed. So really the only sound at the dinner table was the back and forth between Jason and my sister.

My parents left immediately after dinner. They didn’t stay to clean up or talk to their daughters or spend time with their grandson. They grabbed their coats and left.

It was the fastest, quietest dinner I have ever spent with my parents.

I left Jason and my sister alone while James and I cleaned up. I didn’t mind, I knew that she’d be out of our lives by the end of the day. She had been granted 24 hour leave that technically started the night of Christmas Eve so I had to drive her back after only a few hours with us. Thanks to my parents I got an afternoon with my sister and nothing more.

I asked James what happened between him and my mother and he said it was a personal matter and doesn’t bear repeating. I called bullshit but it’s now been almost a week and he still won’t tell me and my father won’t return my calls. I hate not knowing things that affect my family. That’s a dangerous thing.

Christmas itself was fine. We hung Sandra’s stocking and lit a candle for her. It felt right.

When she was little, she hated Christmas. She hated waking up early – her brother loved it – she hated the mess that wrapping paper left behind. But she loved her brother and that was always enough. I don’t think she ever believed in Santa. My sister and I tried to get her to believe for her brother’s sake but I don’t think it worked. She kept it a secret from Jason, though and that was really nice. As she got older, she started to get into the spirit of the holiday more. She started humming Christmas carols around the house but would never admit it. She always found these incredibly personal gifts for her friends and family.

I didn’t think it’d be this hard: spending the holidays without her. It’s a lot more draining than I expected.

I don’t know what else to say after that.

The holidays are going by so quickly and then it’ll be 2016. A whole new year. A lot of opportunity.

I don’t want to make any new year’s resolutions, I’m just going to break them. But that doesn’t mean 
I can’t work harder and be better. This is an excuse to start off the next month on a positive note.

I need a drink.

As always, dear readers,


Stay Safe

Wednesday, 23 December 2015

Your Mid-Week Update 12/23/15

Deck the Halls
Deck the halls with bloody corpses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Waiting for the time to strike
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Don we now our rubber gloves,
Fa la la  la la la  la la la.
Grab the bleach and start the scrubbing,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

See the blazing fire before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Slice them up and leave no traces
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Mix it up so you’re never caught,
Fa la la  la la la  la la la.
Spend your Christmas with the dead,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Twelve Days of Christmas
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Twelve Burning Bodies
Eleven Poisoned Blades
Ten Missing Fingers
Nine Gagged and Bound
Eight Bleeding Stomachs
Seven Days of Torture
Six Acid Washes
Five Broken Necks
Four Bullet Wounds
Three Tire Irons
Two Missing Eyes
And a Severed Head in a Pear Tree

We Wish You a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas;
We wish you a didn’t die;
We hope you stay inside and you don’t get slaughtered.
Good god this is rough I see all your guts;
You should have stayed inside now you’re dead on the floor.

Merry Christmas to all,

Stay Safe this Holiday Season

Wednesday, 16 December 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 12/16/15

I was honestly really getting into the spirit of Christmas until I threw it all up on Friday morning. A 24 hour thing went around the office and I normally don’t catch them but I did; and it sucked. James also did not appreciate it but he was there for my nonetheless like the loving husband he is.

It was just disgusting. I couldn’t eat or sleep or move, really. How do humans deal with this on a ‘more than once a decade’ basis?  I’m never getting sick again.

Oh and my mother called (I’m not saying it’s related or anything). She's coming over for dinner on Christmas Eve. Remember how well that turned out last year? Still I remain hopeful that it won’t end the same way but who knows what’ll happen.

Did I tell you that she hasn’t contacted Jason since his sister’s death? Nearly five months and not a word from her. What kind of grandmother cares so little for her grandchilden? I can expect that for me but she spent so much time trying to butt into the kids’ lives, I’m amazed at how little time has been spent on Jason’s since losing his sister. When she showed up in October for that one day, it is was exhausting. I don’t know how we’re going to get through the holiday season.

In any case, she called on Friday to confirm the four of them would be there for Christmas day. Four of them? Oh yes. My sister’s coming. And her parole officer. I promise I would have told you; if they’d told me. My sister’s been granted leave for Christmas Day and she’s spending it with us. And my mother is driving.

When the fuck did that happen?

To my knowledge, those two have not spoken since her incarceration and suddenly they’re close enough to be making plans without me? I’m calling bullshit. But oh well. Christmas dinner just doubled in bodies – and not the fun way. Who knows what’ll happen.

Probably a repeat of last year. With more bloodshed since I’m not on that weird anti-murder kick. At least that part of my life’s behind me.

Man, I haven’t thought about that in weeks; Daniel and Charlotte, and my stint in the psychiatric ward. That felt like a completely different woman going through all those struggles. I’m glad I came out on the other side of that. It shouldn’t have cost my daughter her life.

No more. My husband, my son; they won’t suffer because of what I do.

See what my mother makes me do? I get sentimental and shit.

I need to go stab something.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 9 December 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 12/09/15

I’ve found myself in this odd state of December where I want to get into the holiday spirit but it’s just not clicking. I’m listening to the music, watching the movies – I’ve seen so many versions of a Christmas Carol, I’m beginning to side with Scrooge. Ba humbug.

I was right: a few kills made me feel better. Or at least they released some endorphins and gave the illusion of happiness. And that’s all we can really hope for isn’t it?

First there was the Snow White and her seven drunk suitors. I came across her trying to leave a bar on Thursday night. She was trying to leave the bar, not me – I think I’ve officially outgrown clubbing. Surrounding this poor 20-something girl were seven men all lined up around the outside of the bar, all trying to get her to go home with them. It was pathetic; so I stepped in and pretended to be her aunt to get her out of there. Once we were a few blocks away, we stopped to hide in an alley just to make sure we hadn’t been followed. The coast was clear so she thanked me profusely and we went our separate ways. Or so she thought. I watched her for a few blocks and then started following her. Stalking is such an ugly word but yes, I stalked her until she realized what I was doing and stopped to confront me on the corner of a deserted street. I told her that she’d dropped her wallet when we escaped and when she turned to check, I stabbed her in the neck with a screw driver. She bled out in the alley I dragged her into and her body was found the next morning.

Then there was The Headless Horsemen (a story which is a little on the nose but it’s still awesome). A man, driving his motorcycle way too late at night in a residential area, lost his head when a concerned citizen removed it with a chainsaw for disturbing her sleep. Of course she killed him in a cemetery where his engine was loud enough to wake the dead. Perhaps it did…

And finally, there was Harry Potter and the Cracked Skull.

I was very focused on the head and neck region this week. Huh.

Anyway, there was a man taking his sweet time walking around the mall where I was doing my Christmas shopping. He would constantly swerve in and out as I tried to pass him; and he walked so slow. Which is just careless. Spatial awareness is so important when you are in a crowded space. It’s just annoying when don’t keep up with the pace of the crowd around you. So of course as he was heading to the washroom, I bumped into him and he happened to hit his head on the tile and I happened to smash his head against the stall door until his skull was cracked and he died from brain damage within the hour – so my husband told me. I often enjoy getting my hands dirty but it means I rely more heavily on my husband to cover it up. Forensics science has greatly improved since I started this. Of course they haven’t caught up to me but they get better each year.

And so do I.

I was listening to the news on my way to work yesterday and they said that our city has the highest homicide and accidental death rate in the continent. And this is a major city. The crowds make it easy to do my job but I couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride when I heard that announcement. Not only do they not know who I am, but they mention nothing of serial murder; they don’t even know all of these killings are related.

Okay, now I’m starting to get into the Christmas spirit.

Speaking of Christmas spirit.

Heather got smashed at the company Christmas party on Saturday and she revealed a little something to our table: her husband didn’t actually ask to join in when he caught her cheating. He’s divorcing her. I feel so satisfied. She’s just a horrible person. I’ve been laughing for days; especially when she showed up on Monday morning and begged me not to tell anyone else.

Why would I tell anyone when I can use it as blackmail? She cares so much about her reputation at work, it’d be a sin not to exploit it.

So Heather is sated and quiet and I’m finally coming into the overwhelming feeling of joy and fulfillment that comes with the holidays.

Thank you, readers, for helping me work through that. I’m feeling a lot better.

As always, dear readers,


Stay Safe

Wednesday, 2 December 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 12/02/15

I’m doing better. I remembered my husband’s birthday. I already woke him up with…my knowledge of his birthday. He was very happy.

Okay yes, birthday sex is very clich├ęd but you know what? So am I. That’s just how we roll.

James is in the shower so I’m writing quickly. I don’t really have much to say anyways. Things have been going well for us and I’m very content in my life right now. James is back home, Jason is…at school. I assume he’s succeeding or at least not flunking out since I haven’t heard anything from his teachers.

Work is fine – Heather’s a bitch. Everything’s back to normal.

Well, as normal as things can be these days.

I’ll admit that I haven’t…I feel…I…

I miss my daughter.

I know that it’s natural and there’s nothing I can do to change what happened but I just want her back home. It occurred to me the other day that I haven’t been in her bedroom since she died and…I still haven’t.

I think I’m scared.

I don’t get scared very often any more. Not about trivial things like bedrooms.

I just don’t want to put her things away. With Christmas so close I’ll probably lose all willpower to do what “needs to be done”. That’s how James describes it.


I love Christmas. All those extra people on the street late at night, carrying money and gifts so murder suddenly becomes a “mugging gone wrong” and I don’t have to spend money on gifts for my co-workers. It’s the best.

Maybe a couple of kills will get my mind off of such morbid things.

I just heard the shower turn off so I’m going to leave things here.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 25 November 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 11/25/15

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have my husband back.

Sexier than ever.

See, I told you: death brings people together. Saturday night, he got home late from his shift to find a steaming hot dinner, a loving and patient wife, a foot of rope, some rubber gloves, and a few knives.

What more could a man want?

We ate, we got caught up on our everyday lives; it was all very amicable. He’s been taking a lot of shifts and working closely with a few more prominent colleagues in addition to taking his usual calls (domestic disturbances, damaged property claims, all that good stuff). Apparently, he’s thinking about taking his detective’s exam. It’s going to take a lot of work and it’s obviously not a guarantee but it’s something. It’s a step forward.

Later on in the evening, James confessed that he’d done some thinking while we were separated. He wants to be more consistently present for Jason and he wants to move forward with his life. I support him 100%. Having more connections, having more consistency – having more money – it’d be really convenient. Not to mention it would make him happy. And I want him happy. Almost more than I want myself safe.

So, after dinner, we packed up the supplies and jumped in the car. We drove around for about half an hour before he parked the car in front of some random elementary school and took a leisurely stroll. It was mercifully cool – not fucking freezing cold like it usually is this time of year – so we ended up walking for two hours.

We continued to talk and laugh. It felt good. Really good. Holding hands, stealing kisses, watching the snow fall. I felt like a kid again – or at least a kid in a really sweet romance novel.

You know those moments that just feel unreal – almost magical? You want to freeze that feeling, keep it bubbling in your chest for as long as possible, being able to look back on it and just smile.

Walking arm in arm down the snowy sidewalk. Seeing a woman trying desperately to start her car and offering to help. Sneaking behind her while my husband distracted her.  Stabbing her in the neck and ducking behind the blood splatter. Watching her stumble down the street grasping at the air, unable to cry out. Letting her fall in the road while blood flows onto the clean white snow. Kissing my husband while our victim takes her last breath.

Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit seeping into my subconscious, I don’t know. But whatever got into me, it has made me sappy as fuck.

But you know what?

I had a great night.

I had a really good kill, I reconnected with my husband, and we had fantastic sex against the washing machine while our outer clothes were cleansed of evidence.

It was like when we first started dating.

It was really nice and I have just been floating on a cloud ever since this weekend.

I’m in a good place right now and…I’m satisfied.

Yeah.

Really satisfied.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 11/18/15

I don’t know how I expected last week to go but this was…actually what I was hoping. Not what I was thinking would happen but what I was hoping for. He’s back.

As of last night, James has moved most of his things back home. He still has a locker at work but he’s slept the last three nights in our bed and that makes me feel…very happy. To be honest, I’m ecstatic but worried.

I’ve spent 21 years of my life learning to be independent and overly cautious in my relationships. And I got really good at it. 8 years ago I met James and a year later we were married. I started dating him because it was convenient. Here was someone who didn’t have to be told my secret, who loved me and protected me. Yes, by the time he proposed I loved and protected him but it didn’t start out that way. It was easy to use him when it came to my other life: to get me information, to cover my tracks. It didn’t hurt me at all.

But some time in the last 7 years of marriage, our relationship changed. I reread my post from last week and I realized how codependent I’ve become. It shouldn’t be like this. In the old days I would have seen it as a sign of weakness – and in some ways it is – but I just don’t care.

I’ve spoken about my contention with the notion that serial killers need to be lone wolves. I think it makes them better killers to have families and secrets. It makes them careful.

At least it’s supposed to.

I don’t know what I expected out of this update. I love my husband and I’m so glad that he’s back home and that he’s agreed to work through our problems together instead of apart. Apparently my pride is getting in the way of realizing how lucky I am. I have a husband, and a son, and I haven’t been arrested for serial murder in 22 years.

What more could a girl ask for?

Although…

You know what would be a great way to get back to the way we were?

Letting James pick out the next victim. My loyal readers know how much foreplay that is for us. Hopefully it'll be an opportunity for us to work through things. If not, someone will die and then we'll have sex on kitchen floor.

Who needs couple’s therapy when you can just hang out in a dark, deserted alley waiting for some poor unfortunate soul to stumble in to your trap?

I know what I’m doing this weekend.

As always, dear readers,


Stay Safe

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 11/11/15

Remember last week how I said James needed his own update? Apparently today is that day. If there’s time before I head to work I’ll do a brief tutorial on my experience with manual strangulation – which is a dangerous and therapeutic method.

But for now, we’re going to talk about my husband.

It’s been 6 weeks, 3 days, and 16 hours since James moved his things out of the house. He’s been by a few times and we’ve talked and fucked but I have no idea how to fix things between us. Yes, he’s called me on my bullshit and we’ve gone through all of our problems with a fine tooth comb but he won’t tell me how to resolve our problems. I’ve apologized, I’ve tried to continue my daily life without my husband at home but I can’t sleep at night.

That’s been a real struggle. I didn’t realize how much I relied on my husband to fall asleep at night until he wasn’t there. When he sleeps on his back, he does this little snort every 30 seconds. It’s only cute because I miss it – it used to drive me nuts. And if you pull the covers up too high he’ll claw at the blanket. That one’s actually adorable. He’s like a puppy.

We thought about getting a dog, once. When the kids first joined us, we thought giving them some sort of companionship would help the transition. We ultimately decided against it because of costs but I sometimes wonder what having a pet would be like. In a house as crazy and dramatic as ours, maybe having an animal to care for would have mellowed us out. Oh well.

I don’t…know what to do. I keep saying that but-

Ugh… marriage is frustrating. And communication is very important.

He’s the first person I’ve ever trusted completely and…

I can’t lose him.

I’m going to confront him. I’m going to his work and I won’t leave until we work things out. I’m not going to give up.

Wish me luck, dear readers, I’m getting my husband back.

As always, dear readers,


Stay Safe

P.S. Shoot, I forgot to do the tutorial on asphyxiation. Here's a blog post I found that'll get you started. Feel free to comment with questions and I'll address them at a later date: http://madamewriterofwrongs.blogspot.com/2013/06/forensic-fridays-part-4-asphyxiation.html 

Wednesday, 4 November 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 11/04/15

I’ve killed six people in the last seven days. It’s been…really therapeutic actually. All that red, hot, sticky blood. I really enjoy cutting into flesh and watching blood pour against their skin. And watching the light as it leave their eyes – that last spark of life; it’s practically orgasmic. Speaking of orgasms…

No. I’m not going to talk about James today. He needs his own update and I just don’t have the energy to write one that long.

I sometimes wonder why I’m telling perfect strangers about my love life. I mean, you didn’t ask to hear about my failing marriage and it’s rarely beneficial to tell others about my comings and goings – I’m not usually big on unsolicited advice (see: My Mother).

I don’t know. There’s something oddly comforting in sending my troubles out into the universe. Maybe they’ll come back as solutions. Or they won’t come back at all.

Anyways.

I haven’t been sleeping much lately – for reasons you know so I’m not going to discuss them now – which means I’m restless and unpredictable. On Friday I went for a walk which is usually a bit of a hit and miss kind of night. Late night walks are a great way to kill and have it blamed on gang violence or let it go unsolved but Halloween is filled with people who are anonymous and hyperaware of their surroundings when they’re on the street. In other words: unreliable targets. But nevertheless, I found myself wandering around a neighbourhood not my own in the wee hours of the morning, my only mood music the sounds of dwindling house parties and left over decorations.

Lucky me, I found myself walking down a dark alleyway, drawn in by the sounds of a drunken couple sloppily getting off in the backyard of one of those slutty celebrations of the wiccan holiday. On a whim, I pretended to be an annoyed neighbour asking them to keep the noise down. I was told to fuck off – this is a shouting match over a fence, remember – so I opened the back gate and asked the couple to step away so we could talk. Once we were out of the light, I slit the girl’s throat and knocked the boy unconscious with the butt of my knife before stabbing him five times around his heart – in the shape of a pentagram because I can.

I know a lot of people think you want to kill the male of the couple first because he’s the one most likely to fight back (if we’re embracing stereotypes) but sometimes it’s actually easier to take out the girl who looks like she’s a screamer. I’ll tell you this: if your kill is playing out like a scene in a horror movie, kill the slut first. She’s likely to scream and attract attention whereas the jock is more likely the strong silent type.

Second rule of murder: know your audience. Know who you’re killing – not by name, but by personality type – and know who’s going to find the body. Is it going to be a random person on the street, a parks and rec worker, a neighbour, an annoyed home owner?

The people who know their city the best are the active serial killers in the country. They’re tuned in to the pulse of the city, they know all the inner workings of the municipal system because they can’t get caught by it. If you’re planning on making the career switch, do your research.

Admittedly I learned a lot by trial and error but I don’t want you to take 20 years to get as good as I am. That’s why I’m imparting some of my wisdom. Of course I’ll never tell you all my secrets. There’s a reason I’m the most successful active serial killer in the continent – and that’s not just a boast; I checked. Of course it’s hard to compare when I’ve never officially been labeled a serial killer.

Actually, I don’t know if I’ve ever told you the story of the time in the early 2000s I was called the “White Chapel Double”. I killed a prostitute and one news station compared it to the Jack the Ripper killings so I thought I would indulge them. Ove the course of three months, I played a prank on the city by killing 16 prostitutes before suddenly stopping. I took two weeks off after that to let the dust settle before I went back to my normal programming. It was kind of fun to see all the police and reporters speculate on who I was and why I was doing it.

No one came close.

That was the most satisfying part. No one had a clue. I rarely worry about my secret being found out and when I do it’s easily alleviated.

So I can do things like kill 6 people in 7 days with little to no stress on myself.

That’s what my personal life is for.

I need coffee.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 28 October 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 10/28/15

In the spirit of Halloween - and in an effort to escape the monotony of my unchanging home life – I’m going to share with you dear readers a story: a horrible tale of murder, and mayhem.

Let us begin.

A mother’s greatest gift to the world is her children – of that fact, few are in dispute – but not every woman is fit to be a mother and not every mother is willing to part with her gift. Certain women are all too eager to part with their children. Some would think these mothers heartless but not everyone knows what it is to fear their children. To hear their daughter calling and be filled with a sense of dread. To see their son walking through the hallway and hide from him.

What would you do if you were afraid of your children?

A woman, Cynthia, unable to conceive, longed for a child but feared she would never have such joy. Her husband Anthony, sad to see his wife in such pain, suggested adoption and she agreed with a renewed sense of hope. After many months of struggle, a brother and sister became available to them. Unable to afford two new mouths to feed, the couple chose to adopt the girl, naming her Samantha, promising visitation to her brother John as often as possible, but no new home.

The girl was quiet, only 12 years old, but humble and introverted. As she began her new life, she proved to be helpful around the house but highly anti-social. Her teacher’s immediately noticed minor aggressive tendencies from Samantha whenever her classmates tried to get to know her. At home, she was the epitome of the perfect daughter – soft-spoken but kind and respectful. For a child on the verge of teenager-dom, she was a dream.

As promised, the parents allowed John to visit his sister on the weekends, but those visits quickly became more frequent. Every few days, Cynthia would catch John in his sister’s bedroom or in the kitchen stealing food. While her husband was furious with the boy, she quelled his fears with reason. A 10 year old boy without his sister was lost and found no reason to remain at the orphanage where he was kept. Instead of reporting the boy for his loneliness, the equally-lonely mother submitted the paperwork to adopt the boy as well. All there was to do was wait.

She soon found that to be a mistake.

Whenever the children were in the same room together, they seemed to a have an almost telepathic ability to communicate. Without any preplanning the two would be able to make decisions, move as one, even finish each other’s sentences. To say the least, it unsettled the couple. But siblings – especially children who have gone through trauma – are prone to being remarkably close to each other. What harm could come from that?

After many months together, Cynthia felt it was time to introduce the children to the rest of her family – particularly her sister, her closest friend. However, her sister’s visit was cut short by a tragic fall down the stairs which lead to hospitalization and 3 broken bones. The only other people at home at the time were the children who were catatonic when questioned. Cynthia’s sister was absolutely adamant that Samantha was there as she lost consciousness at the base of the stairs.

Concerned for the safety of her family, Cynthia contacted the adoption agency, asking for more information on the children’s troubled history. The clerk came back with the terribly suspicious news that any record of the children’s past was destroyed in a break-in, resulting in the deaths of 2 agents.
With little else to be done, life continued as normal for the family. Samantha and John developed into very intelligent and kind children as the months past but problems still persisted in the classroom. Their teachers called them territorial and dangerously over protective of one another. Samantha was briefly suspended from school for biting a student who approached her brother in a “menacing manner”. To say the children were inseparable would be an understatement.  

Trying not to give in to other’s fears, Cynthia did her best to give her children some space until her daughter’s suspension. When she tried to talk about the incident, Samantha became physically aggressive and refused to speak on the matter or of her past. Cynthia grew worried but Anthony became furious and frustrated. With every day that the children became a menace to the world, he grew more unsettled and impatient with Cynthia’s inability to take action.

Things only got worse from there. Anthony awoke in the middle of the night to find John standing in the doorway of their bedroom. Just staring. Anthony immediately woke Cynthia who ushered the child back to bed without any protest. Her husband was enraged but she refused to deal with the child. Of course he would be having night terrors or sleep walking: he was a child still adjusting to a new life.

Except he came in every single night for two weeks.

Anthony had had enough so he called a child psychologist who agreed to meet with the kids. The doctor received nothing but silence for two months and nothing was getting better at home. The situation wasn’t getting worse either until Cynthia brought the children for their appointment one day only to discover that the doctor had apparently committed suicide.

Anthony and Cynthia fought for days. He insisted that the children be sent back to where they came from but Cynthia wouldn’t let them go. She was so sure that nothing that was happening was the fault of the children. She couldn’t imagine hurting them like that – or hurting herself.

As the months past, the children only became more of a menace. Samantha became overly aggressive with anyone but her family and John stopped speaking entirely. At his wit’s end, Anthony left Cynthia. He asked her to choose between him and the children and she refused. So she was left alone with two children who frightened her. She couldn’t sleep with John staring at her and Samantha was now under full-time supervision, suspended from school for beating a student. She didn’t leave the house anymore, afraid of leaving the children alone but also afraid of what would happen to her if she left. Even if the children weren’t at fault for the deaths, something was wrong with them. She could see that now. But she was alone.

They were so kind to her but the rest of the world feared her and her family.

That’s when the call came.

The orphanage digitally recovered the children’s files directly from Child Protective Services. Their mother had had a psychotic break after the death of her youngest child. She blamed Samantha and John for their brother’s death, and became so afraid of her children that she took drastic measures to keep them subdued. She starved the children, locked them in the basement, deprived them of everything a mother should freely give to her children. A concerned neighbour called the authorities and the children were saved but damaged.

Much of their information was redacted on the adoption record in order to keep the children safe – especially after their mother escaped custody. She was currently the main suspect in two suspicious deaths and a suicide that was now being considered a homicide.

It was feared that the children were in danger of their mother finding them.

The bodies of Cynthia, John, and Samantha were found in their home the next day. Anthony had come home to apologize. Cynthia was clutching John to her side, trying her best to shield him. Samantha was covered in bruises and scratches but her fingernails had blood, and skin, and hair: like she’d fought for every single moment.

They found the children’s mother hiding in the master bedroom, convulsing in shock.

She couldn’t stop smiling.




What I’ve discovered from this exercise is that I should probably stick to non-fiction.

Happy Halloween.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 10/21/15

I haven’t always gotten along with my in-laws. There was a period of time right before we got married where James had to convince me not to kill his mother; but after I got custody of the kids, the two of us developed a friendly if not staggered relationship, only speaking when absolutely necessary, but always in an amiable manner.

I didn’t want to kill her because she was rude, mind you. I know not every mother is like mine – bless her heart, if she has one today – but I hated her because she was so kind. She was deceptively kind. I spent the first two months of my relationship with James absolutely paranoid that she was being friendly with me just so she could gain my trust and then shank me in an alley.

Yes, I see the irony in my fear, I’m still not wrong.

I brought my fears to James and he laughed at me before reminding me that not everyone has an ulterior motive. Some people are just nice. During the entire wedding process, she remained an absolute peach, so excited that her son was happy. I remember going with her to pick out my wedding dress – because, god-forbid I take my mother, I’d end up killing the attendant before I picked out a dress.

As it was, I ended up slashing the poor girl’s throat later that day to vent my frustration.

So there I was, with James’ mother, face lit up like a Christmas tree because every dress was “oh my goodness, so beautiful”, and I blew up at her. I yelled at her for being so fucking nice, and asked her how she managed to raise her son when he couldn’t even stand up for herself. She stopped smiling. I swear that was the first time she had stopped smiling since I met her. And she just walked out the door.

I went to James that night, expecting to get an earful about respecting his mother, only to discover that she hadn’t said a word to him. She didn’t whine or complain, she kept her son safe.
I called her the next day and we met for coffee so I could apologize. When I got there, she was already sitting there with a bouquet of flowers. I lost it. I just remember being so angry that she had somehow gained the upper hand in our relationship that I acted like a child. I threw the flowers out and walked away.

Two weeks later – and after one very long lecture from my finance – I worked up the courage to apologize and have a frank discussion about my stress over the wedding. After that, things were strained to say the least but we leveled out into a tolerable companionship. It wasn’t until the week after I got the kids that we actually developed a sort of kinship.

Sandra was absolutely intolerable after she lost her mother. She wouldn’t talk to me, or eat anything I put in front of her. She skipped school more often than she went during that first month. Jason, following his sister’s lead as always, learned a lot of new swear words in a very short amount of time and used any possible excuse to use them on James and I. When he knew what he meant, his words stung.

On a really bad day, for whatever reason, I found myself calling my mother-in-law – in tears – asking her to come over. James was at work and the kids had both left so it was just me alone with a bottle of wine. I just vented to her about all the problems I’d been having, raising two preteen children, and she listened. She just listened and poured wine while I cried into my glass. And then she smiled and said “I know.” After that night we definitely established some common ground and that was the beginning of our friendly working relationship.

Last week, she called me and told me to meet her for coffee so last Wednesday I showed up after an exhausting day at work and there she was, smiling as usual. She’s definitely aged well, which I’m glad to know. Maybe James will get that gene and we’ll be that 70-year old couple who could pass for 40.

I’m determined to be immortal – or at least look like it – so hopefully we can not-grow old together.

We got our overly-expensive coffee and sat down at a table in the corner, and then I listened.
She told me that she didn’t want to know what was going on between the two of us – “your problems are your own”, she said – but she told me to have patience. James is stubborn and emotional but he loves me and whatever happens, I make him happy. But simultaneously, I have to be attentive. We both did something wrong, whatever it was, and we need to find a solution together.

It’s not something new to me. I’ve heard all of this before. But coming from her, it seemed to strike a chord.

After I left her, I called James and he agreed to stop by the house the next night.

He’d stopped shaving; that was the first thing that came to mind when I opened the door. He was all scraggly and muscle-y and

We had sex.

It was really good.

I have missed having sex with my husband.

But that also means we didn’t talk. In face we haven’t spoken since that night. I’m nervous. I think I screwed up. I hate asking the internet for marriage advice but:

Readers, what do I do?

As always,
Stay Safe

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 10/14/15

I saw my parents for the first time since before Sandra’s death. The timing of the funeral was “too inconvenient” for them so they came on their own time. I don’t think they believed me when I made that phone call. Now they believe me.

I mean, yes, I am sometimes known for exaggerating and lying to them but seriously: why would I lie about this?

My parents have never been super supportive of the kids. When my sister was first incarcerated they put up a fight for custody and after they lost they did try to visit but that was it. From everything I’ve seen of their interactions with the kids, even when they were living with my sister, my parents are more about the presentation than the actual human contact.

They don’t care about the kids; what they care about is how it looks to see a grandparent caring for their grandchild. Thankfully neither Sandra nor Jason seemed to buy into their charade and very quickly refused to see them once they were aware enough to speak their minds. I’ve always been very grateful to use my children as an excuse to avoid my parents but this weekend was apparently an exception.

They called me on Friday to remind me that they were driving in the next day which absolutely stunned me since I had no knowledge of any arrangement to visit. I mean, it is entirely possible that I forgot or that they were mentioning their “plans” as a way to confuse me into accepting their arrival but for whatever reason, it just wasn’t sitting right with me. I asked Jason when he got home and he told me that he had invited them. He was absolutely serious. No hints of anger or malice or humor; just straight-faced and determined. For whatever reason – one I still don’t know, by the way – he decided that it was the best idea in the world to invite his absentee grandparents to dinner after they couldn’t be bothered to show up to his sister’s funeral.

Regardless, they showed up just after 2pm on Saturday and immediately made known their dissatisfaction at the state of my home. For once, when I knew my parents were coming, I didn’t spend an entire day scrubbing and reorganizing the house. I just left it in the horrible, disgusting mess that it was. I felt free to say the least. It was so satisfying to see my father wide-eyed and white as a sheet, completely lost for words. I think he was overwhelmed by every little detail that was out of place so he just kept his mouth shut. Admittedly, I was fascinated.

My mother, of course, didn’t let herself be stunned for too long and quickly went on a tirade around the house, ranting about the state of affairs and “how could it get this bad since my last visit?”

That’s when Jason finally came down from his room and things got interesting.

For starters, he was polite – while projecting his voice – and greeted my parents by name. He invited them into the living room where he would be happy to get them something to drink while I continued preparing a “light lunch, as a courtesy”. I mean What the Fuck? Whoever possessed my son was obviously part English butler. I’ve never heard him string along more than a sentence with my parents before he started to become moody and cussed them out under his breath while his sister shielded him.

Sandra was always very good at protecting her brother from the big evils of the world – their grandparents included – I wonder if this polite and passive aggressive stance is his way of coping without her.

Anyways, he helped me make sandwiches and a veggie platter in silence while my parents watched the T.V. channel that plays nothing but nostalgic reruns. I asked Jason what had gotten into him and his only response was a very serious look of determination and a hint of a smile.

Naturally, as lunch began, I was prepared for a slew of criticisms and judgements to pour out of my mother while I had resigned myself to dead silence on my father’s end today and that’s exactly how it began.

Mother’s first question after “pass the dip” was: “so where’s James?”

Jason immediately tensed and I grabbed his hand under the table to keep him from doing anything stupid. I told her that James was at work which obviously wasn’t a lie but I’ve no doubt she noticed that some of his things were missing from the bathroom and front closet so my answer wasn’t sufficient.

“He’s on his way out the door because of you.”

That’s what she said to me. My mother. Blaming me because she thinks my husband is leaving me. I’ve never had the energy to argue with my mother so I just ate my turkey and cheddar sandwich and let the statement linger between us. Of course that didn’t stop her.

In fact I think she waited until I was chewing to apologize for not attending the funeral, stating that if I talked to her more often, they’d have been able to make it. There was dead silence for a long time before my father spoke up for the first time since greeting me.

He asked about the funeral. He asked how it was, who attended, that sort of thing.

I was too stunned to offer him anything but short statements of fact. I find myself baffled by my father. He’s always carried himself with a sense of military discipline despite – to my knowledge – never actually serving. He’s the strong, silent, and judgemental type who never made me feel good enough and out right terrified me as a child. He still scares me but I know he would never lay a hand on me. He’s a man of few words who prizes order and discipline above all else. I have a lot of respect for him.

So why the hell did he marry my mother?

In any case his questions shocked me. All I could give were basic answers. Before I could go into any detail, Jason slammed his hands on the table and stood, his body tense and defensive.

The table was stunned into silence – something I never thought I’d hear from my mother. He just attacked her. He called her out on all her bullshit for the last 5 years: The passive aggressive assaults, the constant victim-blaming, the manipulative, egotistical personality that landed his mother in prison. All of it. And she took it because he is her grandson and if it were anyone else she would have fought back. Hell, I would have fought back. But because it was her, and him, I just sat there and watched. I admit to a small speck of satisfaction at seeing my mother’s face turn blue.

The dinner was an emotional rollercoaster ride: my father’s sudden humanity, my son’s abrupt decision to stand up for himself; but the thing that really shocked me is that after Jason was done scolding my mother, she apologized. Not her usual apology were she pretends like she doesn’t understand why we’re angry at her. She seemed sincere.

They left shortly after that so I didn’t actually get a chance to talk to her but she promised to stop by next weekend. Whatever made Jason finally stand up for himself worked.

After all these years, I think someone finally got through to my mother.

I have renewed respect for my son.

And speaking of improving family relations: I’m having coffee with my mother-in-law today after work. God knows how well that’ll go over.

Wish me luck.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 10/07/15

I miss my family.

I apologize if this week’s episode is a little less than coherent, I’m a little flustered. James stopped by the house just as I was sitting down to write this. I didn’t expect me to be awake but I haven’t been sleeping. I didn’t tell him that, thanks to my shameful pride, but it might not have mattered. He only came to get more clothes and a few other essentials. It seems we’ll be separated for even longer.

He looked good. I mean he always looks good but he’s been sleeping and taking care of himself like being apart hasn’t fazed him. It’s fazed me. With the exception of these past few months, James and I have shared a bed every night for eight years.  Being without him and not knowing when or if he’ll return is making me uncomfortable in my own bedroom. That shouldn’t happen. Everything in it is only half mine. The rest is his.

The sheets, the curtains, the pillows: we bought them together. One partner didn’t go shopping on behalf of the other, we bought them together; as a couple should. We went on this spree when we first got married. We were renting from James' parents and we didn’t want anyone to make decisions for us – as rebellious late-20s, early-30s are wont to do – so we sold all of the gifts we received at the wedding and went on a huge shopping spree of appliances and furniture. We were lost for days in that store, but we loved every minute of it and in the end, we found items that we could both love. And now they’re sitting in our bedroom, taunting me.

I fear divorce, I do. I don’t know what he needs form me and I wish he would tell me. I just need to fix it. I need my family back together – or as best as I can manage.

I had more things to talk about but I can’t think of it. A five minute conversation with my husband has completely drained my energy. I wish I could head back to bed but I’m awake now, more than ever. Might as well get ready for work. I have very little else going for me at the moment.

As always,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 30 September 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 09/30/15

I had my first kill since Daniel. Well, my first two, actually. On Sunday I was picking up some bread from the local convenience store at some ungodly hour – because I forgot to pick some up earlier when some bitch swerved into my spot without any signal or indication that she was turning. Naturally I was pissed off. With clenched fists I kindly asked the woman to signal next time or wait her god damn turn. She flipped me off so I slammed her head into the brick wall. A few kicks to the skull and she was dead. I felt such a sense of relief wash over me that I didn’t think when I saw they figure approach me, I just pounced.

Well, pounced might not have been the right word.

Apparently the bitch’s brother was sitting in the passenger seat and saw the whole thing. He circled me like I was some caged animal instead of the refined woman that I obviously am. So instead of attacking him – because obviously I’d win – I took a breath and started panicking. I stared at the man, frightened out of my mind, apologizing profusely, unsure what exactly came over me, begging him not to call the police – maybe she was just unconscious. He refused in a loud, shaky voice like the man could move mountains but his heart was broken. I think that’s the best way to describe him: A large, boisterous man who was visibly moved by the idea of his sister’s death. He explained his situation (re: “I was sitting in the passenger seat and saw you attack my sister”). That’s when I started crying. A sure-fire way to make a man bring down his guard is to cry. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would work but just like that, he was rushing toward me in an attempt to startle me into stopping. He told me I was crazy so as he turned to call the police, I tripped him and slammed his head into the pavement. Over . And over. And over again.

I hate getting blood or dirt on myself but I’ll make an exception for some. Like the ones who call me crazy while I have their life in my hands. Idiots.

So I killed the brother and sister, picked up some bread, and went home. Overall a very productive half hour. But as I was lying in bed that night , I kept thinking about that goliath of a man, so distraught over the death of his sister that it cost him his life. Would that happen to Jason? I spent the next few hours sort of obsessing over Jason and his relationship with Sandra.

Yes, that’s the first time I’ve written her name since her death. It’s time.

I wondered what Jason thought of his sister? Did he love her? Was it some obligatory affection that comes with sharing blood or were they genuine friends, bonded over loss. I thought about asking him but the fear of shutting him out at the mention of his sister was too great to risk anything. Again.

Man, that kid terrifies me sometimes.

In other, unrelated news: Heather’s husband found out about the affair. I have no idea how. She just walked into my office this morning and announced that she needed Friday off because her husband found out she had been cheating on him for the past two years…

And he wants to join.

What the fuck?

I have no words, absolutely no words.

But that sort of thing doesn’t really appeal to me. I mean, we’ve talked about threesomes and other sexual positions but if he ever cheated on me, that’d be it.

Not that he ever would; loyal as a bulldog, that one. Despite any resentment he may still harbor towards me. We had an exhaustingly long talk over the weekend – before the forgotten bread.

We talked about Sandra and the technicalities of losing a child – we were both too exhausted to discuss the emotional impact.

We talked about Jason and his lack of communication and therefore our lack of knowledge on how to deal with him.

We talked about Daniel and my mishandling of the situation last year – he’s adamant that I had some romantic feelings for Daniel and nothing I did convinced him otherwise.

We talked about our relationship, where we’ve found ourselves from the last few months; we stopped talking about where we’re headed.

We talked about me and my selfish actions, virtually destroying our family unit.

He’s staying with friends for a bit.

He thinks separation may be good for us.

Yeah, I don’t believe that either.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Monday, 28 September 2015

Review of Me Without You by Mindy Hayes

I read book one in the Willowhaven series last year and fell in love with the characters in this town so of course when Mindy Hayes came out with the second book (admittedly several months ago, I can’t believe it took me this long) I had to do a review.

Since her father's abandonment eight years ago, Alix Fink has done everything in her power to keep her family's affairs private. She’s as closed off as they come, but Aiden Ballard wants to remedy that. Though it’s been a losing battle, Aiden has been desperate to win Alix’s heart for years.

Everyone knows Aiden Ballard’s parent’s lives were lost in a fatal car accident when he was sixteen, but only Aiden knows what really happened that fateful night; something he’s been desperate to hide from everyone for the last nine years—especially from Alix.

In the small town of Willowhaven, secrets have a way of revealing themselves. Alix and Aiden couldn’t be farther from perfect, but they couldn’t be more perfect for each other. When their secrets rise to the surface, they must overcome them or face a lifetime of loneliness.


Wednesday, 23 September 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 09/23/15

I feel like I can finally breathe. I returned to work on Monday and I’m kind of playing catch up but everyone is still handling me with kid gloves so they’re not going to get mad at me if I miss a few deadlines. Heather is really the only one who’s treated me like normal but I think that’s because she forgot I was gone. I must admit that having that small bit of normalcy (aka Heather being a fairly productive bitch) has been a blessing.

Jason is heading back to school next week – so he promises. James and I had a long talk about how to handle Jason’s absence and we agreed that pushing him to go back to school will not further our relationship in any way. We did give him a bit of a deadline but we all agree that the longer he stays away from school the harder it will be for him to return so he’s arranged to get caught up on his lessons in anticipation.

The girl who dropped off his schoolwork last week – who we’re calling Sara – has been coming by every day after school and going through all of the things he’s missed. She’s sweet and has a crush on Jason with such obvious fashion that I can’t help but tease him. He just blushes and tells me to stop which just makes me think that he likes her back. Apparently he’s known her since Junior High and they take the majority of their classes together. Since he and his girlfriend split a few months ago, they’ve become closer. I think he’s afraid to ask her out. I’d make fun of his flair for angsty drama but I remember being his age: liking someone and having no idea how to handle those feelings.
Obviously I found a method for venting my feelings but that’s not a solution. That’s not a comfort to Jason. Being someone he can talk to is the closest thing I have to comfort for him. I just hope that the time we spent together last week has helped both of us.

On Sunday I got a call from Charlotte. Apparently Daniel has been pronounced “missing and assumed dead”. The local police are looking at any and all suspects and want to speak with anyone who had any sort of serious connection with him.

She gave them my name.

As his former client, turned friend, turned acquaintance. Not his lover or killer.

Oh god, I can’t believe I’d forgotten: trying to seduce Daniel to keep him from finding out my secret. How poorly that plan turned out.

I haven’t been paying much attention to James lately; I’ve just been letting him do his own thing. We haven’t talked about the separation though I know it’s something that needs to be dealt with. We were doing better – we were healing – and then everything happened. Now that I can at least feel hope, I’ve started wondering, just in moments of weakness, if James is staying with me out of some sense of duty – a need to protect me, or maybe out of pity. I shouldn’t think about those things. I cannot allow myself to feel insecure. It won’t help.

Yesterday, I went down to the precinct to talk to a scraggly looking detective about my relationship with Daniel. It involved a lot of lying around the truth and an amount of memory recall that I never knew I possessed. I had to think back to our first meeting a year and a half ago.

A young co-worker and an obsessive P.I.

The detective (Gordon, we’ll call him) was old and tired, and wanted to go home. I clearly wasn’t a suspect in his eyes, but simply a character witness. It made things a little easier. I could talk about Daniel as he was with his wife – not with me. From what I observed, he once loved her very much. But it was clear that Charlotte and Daniel had different feelings about their marriage and I did nothing to help matters.

I also might have accidentally implied that Charlotte was a suspect in her husband’s disappearance. I didn’t mean to, honestly. She doesn’t deserve any of this. I’ll have to find a way to make it up to her – if she’s exonerated.

That’s what friends do.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 09/16/15

I may have become a little too overprotective of Jason this week. I kind of jumped the gun, so to speak.

I hate when I unintentionally rhyme.

After I had that big revelation about being there for the family I have and bringing my life back to normalcy, I took the rest of the week off of work to stay home with Jason. He had been emailed many assignments and one of his female classmates brought over her notes and lent her textbook for the weekend. I teased him about the crush the girl obviously has on him but I didn’t even get a smile out of him. He didn’t speak at all on that first afternoon but he read the notes and studied the text book; he was more focused than I’ve ever seen him. It was frightening – that was also a joke, I am incredibly proud that my son is taking responsibility for his education despite the circumstances which forced him here. After a few hours of just sitting and watching him work, I let him be. That first afternoon was incredibly boring but I came back the next day with a cup of coffee, determined to be a part of my son’s life. 7am, I woke up, let James sleep – he was on the night shift all last week, poor guy – and woke Jason up with probably too much cheerfulness. But he didn’t fight me. He woke up when I asked him to, he got dressed, ate breakfast, and sat down at his desk, all without uttering a word.

There is nothing so unnerving as a silent child.

But I kept talking, I kept asking him questions – staying on the subject of his school work, of course. I knew better than to bring up other subjects, the things I really wanted to ask. How was he feeling about his sister? Did he want justice, or to forget? Does he blame his parents? Does he blame himself? Questions I’d love to ask – or love to know were being asked by someone – but I’d never dare at this moment. Not when he was so silent. So terrifyingly silent. I don’t know why it bothered me so much that he wouldn’t speak but I have never felt so much relief as on that Thursday afternoon when he finally told me that the answer to Question 2 was x=13.75a

I still don’t know what that means: that wasn’t the right answer. Maybe it was a metaphor? I think he just wanted me to shut up. But in any case, he spoke, and he kept speaking: walking me through his answers, responding to my corrections, rolling his eyes when I teased him about Textbook Girl. I spent the next two days with him, helping him get caught up, keeping him talking.

On Saturday night he came downstairs – which is a feat in itself – and told me “mom, I’ll be fine” Before grabbing a bowl of leftover spaghetti and returning to his room. My heart pounded through my skin and I got chills – the hairs on my arm stood up. The first time we’ve come close to discussing something akin to his feelings in a month and a half and it’s over a bowl of spaghetti. It couldn’t be any other way.

Jason went back to school on Monday, still barely smiling but communicating as best he can. James is back on a daytime shift this week so I’ll get to see him more often. I’m back at work, trying to catch up as quickly as possible: doing the best I can.

It sounds corny but that’s the theme of the week.

Doing the best we can.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Wednesday, 9 September 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 09/09/15

My grandmother died three weeks before I turned 20. I wasn’t particularly close to her but being at her funeral, surrounded by all that sadness, it made me feel unfocused. I couldn’t get any traction on why I was so overwhelmed with emotion. My solution was to kill. I skipped class, ignored my family, and  I killed. Longest murder streak of my life to date. I found a sort of rhythm in the way I stabbed and bludgeoned as much as I could. I even ventured outside of the city to find a new victim pool. The day after my twentieth birthday, I went to visit my grandmother’s grave. Then I continued to kill because it made me feel better.

Yes, talking also helps. That’s part of why I started the blog. Mostly to document my life – let people know that they aren’t alone and that I’m awesome – but it also gave me an opportunity to talk through things in my life that I couldn’t bring up to anyone else. After I met James I just kept going. It felt nice to have a place to get everything out in the open without the fear of consequences.

He picked his own name, you know. With everyone else on this blog, I picked arbitrary names to protect my identity but he asked to choose his own. He said he always felt like a “James”.  The Supplanter. I had to look that up, admittedly; it means to replace by force or oust someone.

He’s been my rock this past month. He’s fielded every phone call, paid every bill. He even took last weekend off so he could help me dispose of Daniel. He’s been so stoic – we’ve barely spoken. Don’t think I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s letting me fall apart, get it all out of my system.

Well it’s out. I did everything I needed to do to put my daughter to rest. I said goodbye at her funeral, I disposed of her killer.

I don’t know what to do next. I’ve just been going to work every day. I don’t talk to people unless I have to, I go home, I eat dinner, and I go to bed. All week. Over and over. I didn’t even notice that Jason hasn’t been going to school. I overheard a call between James and the secretary at the school. He was supposed to go back last week but he hasn’t left the house. James explained the situation and they agreed to send over his homework.

I have two children. I dealt with one and now I have one left. He needs someone and I don’t think I can help him right now.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what comes next. And I hate not knowing. James seems to know. There’s this tingling in my fingers. Like I need to be doing something right now. Like I need to be doing something, I need to be moving. I had that feeling when I was 19. Three weeks before I turned 20. But things are so much different now. I have a son who needs a family and my daughter was going to walk in my footsteps. The way I see it, I have two options: I can focus on my family, take time to rebuild; or I can continue the journey that I was on with my daughter, kill on her behalf.

Why not both?

Take lives that she would have taken, then come home to my family and heal. I think I can do it. I can be both.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Friday, 4 September 2015

Review of Confessions of a Fat Girl

Confessions of a Fat Girl is a story that hit me emotionally – more than I was expecting so you’ll have to forgive if my review Is less than coherent.

Smart and ambitious Season Minett was homeschooled, got accepted into college at 16, graduated with a B.A. in English at 20, got a job at a prestigious magazine at 21, and isn’t afraid to go after what she wants. Twenty-two-year-old Season has it made and everyone knows it. Except Season herself.

People can gush over her all day long, but Season knows they’re just being nice. In reality, she’s accomplished nothing. She doesn’t work hard enough, can’t get her book published, and worst of all at 5’6, 180 pounds with a thirty-two inch waist, a forty-four inch hip, and arms too big for her body, she’s fat and ugly. She's such a disappointment that after her mother divorced Season's dad, she went to live with her new, younger boyfriend and left Season to mother the rest of her siblings. So Season is quite bewildered when the guy she sees every weekend at the bookstore shows serious interest in her. And she ends up liking him. A lot.

Season's not naive enough to think love will solve all her problems though. In fact, love seems to be making everything worse because her food obsession is growing more and more out of her control. But that's impossible. There's nothing wrong with counting calories and wanting to be thin. There's nothing wrong with trying to be as perfect as everyone thinks she is. A fat girl can't develop an eating disorder, let alone have one. Right?

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Wednesday, 2 September 2015

Your Mid-Week Update for 09/02/15

On Friday August 28th Daniel Westburn was reported missing by his co-workers. According to the police statement, he had been acting strangely for the last few months; erratic and uncharacteristic. When he didn’t show up to work that Monday, no one thought anything of it. His wife left him, his co-workers weren’t worried, his family is gone or moved away; no one cared.

Two Saturdays ago I knocked on his door with two cups of coffee in hand; I asked to talk – to clear the air. It took twenty minutes for him to fall asleep.

When Sandra was six she would have night terrors. I babysat the kids a lot. When I realized what was happening, her mother’s solution was drugs. And it worked, for once. All it took was one pill from an over the counter container. That’s why I knew it would work on Daniel.  

He never got around to finishing his basement. Charlotte once told me that it was their newly wed project and when they both let it go, she knew it was the beginning of the end – a little too poetic if you ask me but I get where she’s coming from. Renovations take communication and teamwork and if it doesn’t last then there’s something wrong.

Without the finished basement there was a lot of exposed pipe. Perfect for tying a man up with wires and a rope I commandeered from his shed. I told James to look after Jason and then I moved forward.
I awoke the victim at 6:37am on Sunday morning with scalding coffee down the front of his button-up shirt. The coffee burned his flesh on slightly but the pain was enough to shock him awake. After that, a low voltage shock to his abdomen every twenty minutes kept him screamingly conscious. I tried to think of something clever to say to him as he pled for his life on that first day. I couldn’t find the words. I just cried and burnt. I didn’t speak to him for twelve hours. At the end of it, he had 39 marks on his body, and it wasn’t enough.

I made him dinner. Nothing fancy but I made rice with chunks of chicken in it and I fed it to him slowly; mostly because he spit the first few bites in my face. A few more shocks to his system forced him to eat properly. Can’t have him dying before I decide he’s ready. Of that entire first day, dinner was by far the strangest. He didn’t fight me after that. He was silent. And he took his punishment – 9 more lashes.

I slammed the door as I walked out. I would not let him enjoy a moment of this.
As I sat at my desk on Monday morning I could focus on nothing but him. The look in his eyes after I force fed him dinner.  So blank, so unfeeling. He didn’t understand why this was happening.
So that night after work, I grabbed a hammer from the shed and I smashed his pelvis in. He screamed and the sock shoved down his throat didn’t help much. I just saw red. So when his fingers reached out to me, the wire cutting through the skin of his meaty wrists, I didn’t think. I struck the knuckles of his right hand and it flattened against the wall. His hand became swollen and purple. I loved the shade so much I did it to his left hand.

He wouldn’t stop crying and thrashing. His hands were so big. I made them bigger. This time I watched his eyes as I broke his fingers one by one. He blinked but he never hid. His eyes were so red, so puffy and swollen, like his hands. His jaw barely moved but that was when the whimpers started. With each crack of bone, his eyes grew sad with fear.

Supper was a combination of mushroom soup (which he ate without any fuss) and bread – because I couldn’t be bothered to toast it. That supper was thick and heavy. I had nothing clever to say to him and he remained silent. Only the whimpers.

I don’t think he slept that night.

When I found him on Tuesday, his whimpers had grown to cries – moans of what I assume to be agony. He stared at me, pleading. Eyes wide and unrecognizable. He was…submissive. Whatever had come to him in the night had changed him, made him weak.

I found a lighter upstairs, some rubbing alcohol in the bathroom, I pulled a sewing needle from my purse (yes, I carry a travel sewing kit with me everywhere) and I pulled out the skin beneath his fingernails. One by one. It didn’t hurt as much as it could have; he’d lost a lot of feeling in his fingers by then.  But the whimpering didn’t stop. He-he wouldn’t stop.  

The middle finger of his left hand: that’s when he stopped whimpering. He said “please”.  He kept saying “please” over and over again as I pulled pieces of flesh from his body. The first words I spoke to him were “stop”. But he didn’t. He just kept repeating, over and over.

Please. Please. Please. Please.

So I cut his tongue out. He cried out and he whimpered but he didn’t speak.

I left early that night. Neither of us had supper. I’m pretty sure his tongue is still tucked behind the boiler. It must reek.

That night, I threw up, I curled up on top of the covers, James wrapped his arms around me, and I cried myself to sleep. I resolved to maintain my focus, to make him suffer.

So come Wednesday night, I found myself in a much more playful mood. I told Daniel to use all of his senses. So I started by cutting tiny slits in his eyeballs. He almost passed out form the pain but a quick jolt kept him in the game.

I think Wednesday was the best day of all. He didn’t talk, he didn’t whimper- he didn’t make a sound. He sat there, his swollen hands dangling in the air. His eyeballs bleeding onto his shattered lap. I had all the freedom in the world. I sat and I told him about my day while I carved shapes into his flesh. I didn’t talk about Sandra or all the things he’d done to deserve this. Instead I drew hearts into the soles of his feet while I told him about how insensitive Heather had been yesterday. About the woman who cut me off on the highway last week and I resisted the urge to kill her. I made basic shapes on any exposed flesh, crawling over him like the doll he was. Like I was a child, drawing on an easel. I hadn’t been that relaxed and I probably won’t be for some time. We ate hamburgers with cheese and tomato. Well, I did. He sat. My ragdoll.

Thursday was a bit…messy.

My poor rag doll had slumped down too far so I used the rope to pull him up. Unfortunately I pulled too hard and the pipe it was attached to collapsed down on us. It was the sewage pipe. It didn’t think that was still a thing that could happen but parts of the basement flooded with contaminated water; particularly around our little setup. I left right away and took a nice hot shower.

I did a lot of thinking that night.

I thought about what had led me here. About the seventeen year old with her first crush, murdering the football star. About the girl who had sex with her co-worker and blamed everyone but herself. About the private investigator who couldn’t let it go.

By Thursday night, Daniel had spent six nights in my care. He’d pleaded, he’d cried – but not once had he apologized or shown any sign of remorse for what he did to my family. I may never get it. He was just wasting my time.

Friday morning before work, I took a bottle of bleach and I poured it down Daniel’s throat. He vomited on himself so I poured more. Then I left him there, to die however he chose. By the time I had finished work, Daniel Westburn had died.

And I felt nothing.

I called James and he brought over garbage bags and a mop. Jason was home alone but he never left his room. Between the two of us, it took two days to completely cut up the body and prepare it for transport. Then we took separate vehicles, drove in different directions and disposed of the pieces in secret. Parts of Daniel are scattered in the river while others went through the sewage treatment plant – fitting, I thought.

Daniel is dead.

Sandra is dead.

And right now, I feel…

Free