Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
I shift on the sofa and pull the chenille throw closer up to my neck. My shoulders brush against the armrest until I get my head right on the pillow. I can’t go to the bedroom. I can’t go anywhere in this hotel room without feeling like the cops will burst through the doors at any minute. I’ve only spoken to them on the phone. I can’t imagine they believed my lies. Even as I said them, I could tell they sounded nothing like the truth. Because I’m a liar now. I’m a murderer.
I’m not the woman people think I am. I don’t belong here and I don't deserve to get away without punishment. There’s no denying that.
It’s one thing to mourn the loss of a loved one. It’s only natural, much like a breakup, but you have no way of going back, no way to mend the broken pieces. They simply don’t exist anymore except in memories. Consuming your thoughts with no way to recover, other than to move on. Which, in itself, is a tragedy.
It’s quite a different thing to mourn the loss of yourself. To realize you’re no longer who you once were or who you wanted to be. Your identity has vanished, and staring back at you in the mirror is someone else entirely.
The faint sounds of the TV get louder as a commercial comes on and it makes my skin prick. I turn to face the lights, but I’m not watching it. I don’t even know what’s showing, it’s all blurred. I wanted to turn something on to try to fill the hollowness in me. As if simply hearing something and someone else would make me feel less alone. As if I could somehow ignore my own reality by getting lost in a movie.
When Jace died, this method worked well. I’d turn on a heart-wrenching chick flick just to convince myself that the movie was the reason I was crying. The movie was why I felt the way I did and I could turn it off, if only I wanted to.
It’s not working today, though. I’m all too aware of my current state. I bite down on my thumbnail, looking past the television and over at the curtains, hiding the view from the only window in the living room of the hotel penthouse.
I’m not the sweet good girl I was brought up to be.
And I never will be again. My stomach churns and I roll over to my side, trying to ignore the overwhelming guilt.
I try to convince myself that it’ll be okay, that it was all a mistake or an accident or someone else’s fault, but I’ve never been a good liar.
My throat dries and seems to close as I try to take a breath of air. It’s all too much, this burden, this truth. Mostly the fact that I’m going to get away with it.
I wonder if Jace felt like this back when he sentenced that woman to death? I think back to each morning in his last days with me. But nothing was different. He was the same as any other day. The same smile, the same kiss. The same lightheartedness about him.
He had no remorse. I bite the inside of my cheek wondering how he could go about his days as if everything was all right. Nothing is. And nothing has been for so long.
I can’t hide that any longer. I can’t run from it.
When did I become this woman? One willing to kill. Eager to, even.
I can’t answer that, because I’d never been in this position until Jace died. All of my life, I’ve been handed everything easily. Even if I was grateful, it wasn’t right.
I’ve never had to fight for a damn thing. I’ve never felt the need to defend myself. Maybe this woman, the one who kills out of anger, the one who’s quick to end what threatens her… maybe I’ve always been her. I just didn’t know it, because she was dormant deep down inside of me, comforted by the fact that she didn’t need to act.
Life was kind to her, but not anymore.
My phone goes off by my thigh, making me jump as it rips me from my thoughts. Instinctively, I look to the door first. Where the cops should be coming any minute. They had to know I was the one who really did it. All the evidence is there in my home. I should confess.
They’ll take me away and force me to pay for my crimes.
I’m expecting it. I want it. I want this all-consuming dread to leave me. I want the guilt to wash away. I want to be tried for my sins and sentenced as I should be.
Even if I sat on a jury and heard my story, I don’t know how I’d find myself.