The Fringe
I killed my wife a good year ago.
Now, before all of you start calling the police and the admins try to track me down, I'm not home, not using an IP address that can be tracked to me, and this for sure isn't my real email address. It is impossible to catch me.
I don't think the way the rest of you think. None of your vagaries of sense, no linen shroud covering the corpse of my conscience. I have come to realize Perfect Awareness, and you have never thought of such a thing.
And I do have perfect awareness. I know there is a quarter in my front yard, 15 feet from my porch, and 8 inches deep. It has been there for 52 years. I am perfectly aware of it.
And there is her ghost. She sits now, across the table from me as I laboriously type this into my phone, and frowns at me with her jaw all broken and loose, and she wears no shoes. Of all this I am aware.
There is a cushion on her chair. It has a fringe all around. I know that it is being soiled with her blood, and I cannot stand it. That is why she sits there, and her wounds bleed again, and she stains the fringe on the pillow.
She has followed me to this place. I cannot escape. Far from the campground where it happened, from where the silent watching trees circled our fire and then came the sudden rush of passion, and a passing deer stopped and shivered at the scream it heard. And Death entered the clearing and stayed for awhile, watching, as I cleaned, and covered, and buried.
And I became aware.Perfectly aware, you must know. I knew where every single drop of blood lay. Every button torn from its stitching. From the mere light of a campfire, I plucked every drop of incriminating evidence from the bare earth and buried it with her. I was too smart to be caught. I left no evidence. I laughed at my cunning wisdom. I still cannot be caught.
And that is why she bleeds on the cushion. She is trying to trip me up, she constantly leaves evidence everywhere. And now it is on the fringe of the pillow. I have started a good blaze in the fireplace. Here soon I will take the pillow and throw it into the fire. I will watch until the fringe curls and bursts into flames.
And she is growing craftier. There is a single hair in the trunk of my car, her hair, with blood and dirt. I must remove it. She is keeping me busy, too busy, and I cannot rest.
Of that I am perfectly aware.
Now, before all of you start calling the police and the admins try to track me down, I'm not home, not using an IP address that can be tracked to me, and this for sure isn't my real email address. It is impossible to catch me.
I don't think the way the rest of you think. None of your vagaries of sense, no linen shroud covering the corpse of my conscience. I have come to realize Perfect Awareness, and you have never thought of such a thing.
And I do have perfect awareness. I know there is a quarter in my front yard, 15 feet from my porch, and 8 inches deep. It has been there for 52 years. I am perfectly aware of it.
And there is her ghost. She sits now, across the table from me as I laboriously type this into my phone, and frowns at me with her jaw all broken and loose, and she wears no shoes. Of all this I am aware.
There is a cushion on her chair. It has a fringe all around. I know that it is being soiled with her blood, and I cannot stand it. That is why she sits there, and her wounds bleed again, and she stains the fringe on the pillow.
She has followed me to this place. I cannot escape. Far from the campground where it happened, from where the silent watching trees circled our fire and then came the sudden rush of passion, and a passing deer stopped and shivered at the scream it heard. And Death entered the clearing and stayed for awhile, watching, as I cleaned, and covered, and buried.
And I became aware.Perfectly aware, you must know. I knew where every single drop of blood lay. Every button torn from its stitching. From the mere light of a campfire, I plucked every drop of incriminating evidence from the bare earth and buried it with her. I was too smart to be caught. I left no evidence. I laughed at my cunning wisdom. I still cannot be caught.
And that is why she bleeds on the cushion. She is trying to trip me up, she constantly leaves evidence everywhere. And now it is on the fringe of the pillow. I have started a good blaze in the fireplace. Here soon I will take the pillow and throw it into the fire. I will watch until the fringe curls and bursts into flames.
And she is growing craftier. There is a single hair in the trunk of my car, her hair, with blood and dirt. I must remove it. She is keeping me busy, too busy, and I cannot rest.
Of that I am perfectly aware.