Getting Away with Murder

The art of killing is so utterly and completely complex. To rely on another soul so completely takes a patience and trust only a mother is capable of. It is a bit of a funny matter, really. If I told you that I killed my son, you’d think me a downright criminal. But if you knew that he abused me- cut me, beat me, bruised me -I’d be viewed as nothing but a victim in your little mind. If you only knew that I was chopping carrots in the kitchen when he came home with every intention of beating me for his drunken state and that I truly was defending myself, you’d se e me as a poor soul who needs to be cradled and sung to like a baby. But take note; though context clues may be important, they are a fickle thing. Most people want cold, hard evidence of what happened. It’s no matter really, as I do appreciate being thought of as innocent before the law. Sadly, facts do not generally account for what takes place inside ones and heart and mind. You see, I did mean to kill my son, and I had every intention of doing so from the beginning. And yes, when I say the beginning, I truly do mean the very beginning- when he was born.

I never wanted him and I knew that one day I would have to dispose of him. But to murder your own son cannot go unnoticed. I had to build the story up over time so that I was not the one to blame. Of course I never actually laid a hand on that wretched child. No, but I did abuse his mind. I let him do what he wanted from the time he was able to speak. I fed his anger to the point where every little thing would cause his emotions to boil over. Then I taught him that violence must always answer injustice, as meekness resolves nothing. When he entered his teen years he became tall and strong, and I let him know that he was that much bigger than me. Eventually he began asking for things that I could not supply, and naturally he would hurt me. He viewed this as more of a punishment than abuse to his own mother. I let it go on for around three months before I took action. Then I made my move, covering my crime up with his actions. I played the role of the victim perfectly and the police took pity on me. I did all the right things: I cried when I was supposed to, I blamed myself so as to appear as a mother who really cared, and I received comfort with open arms so as to not cause anyone to worry about me going insane.

After everything had blown over, I was free. I had gotten pregnant when I was sixteen and resented him for fifteen whole years, but finally, I was free. At least, that’s what I had told myself. But I knew even then that this was the start of a new life- one filled with bloodshed. Oh the satisfaction I had felt when I had seen my son’s limp body on the floor of our apartment. He would never bother me again. His death was the beginning to many other peoples’ end. It truly is an addiction, killing. It’s as addictive as nicotine, and all it takes is one cigarette to show you a whole new world in which nicotine is at the center.

It wasn’t long before I had my next victim picked out. I worked at a small diner at the time, and my manager was a very inappropriate man. He would touch me where women ought not to be touched and every time he talked to me he would sit there undressing me with his eyes. It seemed as if it were every day he would have a new reason to get me alone so he could get with me. I never let him, of course, but even still it was enough to drive a woman mad and I knew that I would have to take care of him myself. So one day I followed him home. The man had a wife and two kids and was attempting to fool around with the staff. It was disgusting.

That evening I went to the grocers to pick out a few ingredients that I would need. I planned to bake a cake for my manager. It would be a sweet gesture and would go unnoticed by the authorities if all goes well. I grabbed the usual-flour, eggs, cocoa powder, and other such things of that manner- before heading to the household essentials isle. I scanned the shelves until I spotted what I needed: rat poison. They had all sorts of flavors, which would be very convenient for me. I ended up finding chocolate flavored rat poison pellets that would be perfect for my cake. I bought my items and took my leave.

As soon as I made it home I began to make my cake. I had had lots of practice making chocolate cake since it had been my son’s favorite since he was a toddler, so naturally that would be the kind of cake I was going to make. As soon as I finished preparing the batter, I turned my attention to the rat poison pellets. I had gotten a rather small bag of it, so I went ahead and began grinding up all of it. I then scooped out about a cup and a half of the pellet powder and mixed it into the cake batter. I poured the mixture into the cake pan and carefully slid it into the preheated oven. It was outrageously tempting to lick the spoon, but I knew that I had to refrain or else I would be ingesting the poison meant for my manager. When the timer beeped, I opened the oven door and was met by the sickening sweet aroma of a deadly chocolate cake. I put it in the fridge to cool so that I could ice it the next day.

When morning arrived, I put a thick layer of store-bought buttercream icing on the cake before putting it into my cake carrier. I brought it in to work and presented it to him with a smile plastered across my face. Of course he thought that this was my way of flirting and he invited me into his office, but I insisted he take the cake so I could get to work. When the day ended, he came out of his office and thanked me for the cake. I smiled, rather disappointed that he hadn’t eaten it yet.

On the way home I began to wonder if he didn’t like chocolate cake or maybe couldn’t eat it. That night I slept fitfully as dreams of rats dressed as policemen filled my mind. It didn’t matter. The deed had already been done. That’s what I kept telling myself on the way to work the next morning. I was relieved to find out that my manager hadn’t come in to work. That meant that he dad taken the bait and eaten the cake. The rest of the day flew by in a gleeful flash.

That evening I turned on the News and saw a reporter standing in front of my manager’s house. The headline stated “Man and his Entire Family Found Dead.” I remember it vividly, as if it were only yesterday’s top story. I hadn’t meant for the rest of his family to die; they were innocent. Just collateral damage. I smiled ruefully at the screen. It had worked! That disgusting man was gone for good, and I felt great. Little did I know that this would be the last time I got away with murder.

My last victim was a result of intoxication. It was New Years Eve and I was having a good time with my friends. It was getting late and I had to get home. I had taken a rental car there because my friend lived out of town. I got in the car feeling tipsy. I knew that I shouldn’t have been driving, but I didn’t care. I was having a good time. I blasted music as I sped down the road. It was a dark, moonless night, so the only source it light I had was from my headlights. Almost out of no where, a sharp turn appeared in the road. I jerked the wheel to the side, twisting it as far as I could, but it was too late. I drove off the road, straight into the side of an old wooden house.

Personally, I think the parents should have known better than to put their child’s crib against the wall facing the road. Apparently they didn’t feel the same when I plowed into the side of the house, destroying the crib, and with it, the child. I hopped out of the car as I heard footsteps down the hall and the scream of a broken mother. I laughed hysterically as I tried to explain what had happened, but she wouldn’t listen. She sobbed as she dug through the rubble lookin for her child. We both knew that it was gone since no wailing was to be heard from anyone but the mother. I heard the father in the other room on the phone with the police, so I made a run for it.

They lived near a wooded area, which was perfect for mr to hide in. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I made a run for it. I could hear the sirens and see the flashing blue and red lights in the background as I made a mad dash through the trees. Suddenly I heard the bark of two bloodhounds. I cursed myself as I continued to run, fumbling around through my drunken state. It wasn’t enough, though, as you can clearly tell. That’s why I’m here. I was caught and put on trial. I knew it was useless, so I thought I might as well get credit for my other crimes as well. If I was going to be locked up at least it was for the right reasons. And now I’m here, stuck in a cell with you. And the worst part is that you stuck your nose in where your nose ought not to be, and now you know about my plan to escape. But don’t worry, you’ve just become part of my plan. I call this the diversion. Don’t worry, Darling. This won’t hurt a bit.