I looked into her eyes as I slit her throat, they screamed, “Why?” I didn’t mean to **** her, I watched as her body went limp, crashing onto the cold, marble floor, I had to hide the body but where? I found myself grabbing a shovel and hiding it in the backyard, I had to wash the blood off my body, I soaked the sheets in bleach and burned all the furniture, there was nothing left but ashes and dust, I knew her family would start wondering where would she be, I was nervous, frightened at the fact that they would soon learn the truth, her father was a strict disciplinarian with a catholic background, he preached purity yet practiced adultery, sometimes his lips would kiss the heads of whiskey coated bottles.

During his drunken stupors, his fingers would slip between the cracks and crevices of his daughter’s white skirt, his drunken stupors soon turned to violent outburst, his large, gaping hands grasping the soft, tender flesh of her mother’s throat, she was a quiet woman, she would sit in her recliner and sip on her ruby red wine, her cigarette ashes would be scattered across the floor, her eyes would slip into a stupor, she would sneak her lover's home and fornicate in the master bedroom, their violent ******* would shake the walls, rattle the cabinets and keep the neighbors awake, the whole neighborhood knew of their infidelities yet said nothing, especially her daughter, who would watch their father and mother take home various strangers for their twisted ******, then she met me, I would listen to her, she spoke as the whole room went silent, she would speak about her dreams and fears, I would become her shoulder to cry on, I remember one day, as my fingers would fiddle through her soft, black hair, her eyes, dull and dim, would lay their hints of a tortured life, they were brown, a dark brown, her eyes slowly lost their luster, she would stare at me and the world with such contempt, I knew, I knew that she only wanted love.

I watched her as she slept, her fragile hands, gripping tightly on a crucifix and a bible, she would twist and turn out of frustration and guilt, in her mind, she wanted only to repent. I found her one day with her head slumped over the toilet, the pill bottles and ****** needles sat right to the pool of ***** that flooded the bathroom floors, her eyes were bloodshot, her arms were bruised, battered, and marked, I took her to the hospital, I still wonder, how did she survive? When we returned home, I looked at her, her body would shake and she break out in hot flashes and cold sweats, she couldn’t handle the pain, I could tell, she would look at me like sick puppy wishing to be put out of its misery, she grabbed my hand and gave me the razor, she pleaded and prayed, as I paced the room, I contemplated the thoughts of assisted suicide, as I watched her, she look into my eyes and whispered “Please…” I took the razor, with my hands gently caressing her hair, my hands, the blade, dance across her throat, I saw the blood, the luster in her eyes had returned as she slipped into the afterlife, I knew in death, that she thanked me, I saw the pain, I saw the relief.