THE NARCISSISTIC NAVEL GAZING OF A MURDERING BITCH

Well, I’d been out with the girls before the party, hadn’t I?  Had a few pinots and got into the car.  Fucking husband’s works party, in the middle of Dorset nowhere.  Sorry about the swearing, really didn’t want to go.  Weaving through all those tiny lanes and suddenly bang!  Didn’t even see him, just went into him.  Stopped of course.  Got torch out of glove compartment, terribly organised.  High heels pattering round the car.  Torchlight.  Man, young, not out of adolescence, lying there, really fucking badly injured.  “Don’t worry love, I’ll call for help,” I reassured him, but then I suddenly had a thought.  Been drinking, hadn’t I?  What I would lose flashed before my eyes: husband, house, cleaner coming in once a week, successful job, cats, champagne in wine rack ready for Christmas, friends who held me in high esteem.  You’ve got to do what’s right for yourself in this life, haven’t you?  I didn’t call for help.  I stepped on his neck in my Cavellas until he stopped breathing.  Then I changed into my wellies, got out a spade we keep in the car in case of snow and buried him in a field.  I work out regularly, so it was quite easy to drag him round behind the hedge.  Harder to dig his grave and cover him over like he didn’t happen though.

Then I drove over the county border to the party.  What happened in Hampshire stays in fucking Hampshire, right?  In Dorset now.  Did best to smile at party, drank shed loads, I think.  No-one suspected what I’d done, told them I’d hit a deer.  They treated me like they normally do, like I’m a saint because I listen to all their problems, don’t I?  I’m a regular Mother Theresa.  I recall crying in the toilets at one point.  Then husband told me I looked ill and took me to our hotel early and everyone was terribly concerned.

I became addicted to the news and newspapers, his family were there, appealing for him to come home, just another lost boy on his way between parties, like I’d been.  I was terrified they’d find him, but the days passed and they didn’t.  I began to realise I GOT AWAY WITH IT!  Yeah!  I danced round my room, got away with murder!  Get me!  I searched for traces of the sin on my face, blue eyes still innocent, smile still warm.  I’ve got it going on.  I’m scot free.

But then, then, then, I wanna tell people about it, don’t I?  I want to be forgiven, but I can’t.  I can’t share the pain in my heart, that accompanies the euphoria of getting away with it.  I killed someone young, who had yet to develop fully, who was on that brink before life gets really good, someone who could have been really really special.  I see the faces of his parents on the TV, they want him home for Christmas.  I didn’t just kill him, I killed his future ... No-one will ever know how he would have turned out.  However, murder is socially unacceptable, isn’t it?  I keep silent and continue to be treated like an angel by everyone, as the days continue their relentless march towards Christmas.  My husband thinks I’m wonderful, our friends think I’m this fantastic, supportive person.  But I’ve killed, I’ve buried and if I’m asked, I’m sure I’ll deny it too.