THE SERIAL MONOGAMIST

Xander was lead guitarist in a band, I really like music, so we had loads in common.  He was FUN.  Only problem was George was still there, never leaving my side.  When I did manage to get away, it only seemed right to ask Xander, as Xander so desperately wanted to be with me, if he’d murder George and make it look like an accident.  Of course, George shouldn’t suffer, he’d been part of my life for so long, it was right to show him respect and despatch him gently.

Xander was up for it when he heard how much money I’d come into, George was soon out of the picture and Xander and I were blissfully together.  However, something happened on the way to forever, Xander got Repetitive Strain Injury and couldn’t play his guitar, he got a job in a bank instead.  In the evenings he was always there, sitting on the couch, enlarging his beer belly with cans of Stella and farting.  He wasn’t FUN anymore.  Soon I met John, John was a chemist and I really like drugs, so we had loads in common.  John wanted to be with me, so it seemed only fair to ask him to arrange an overdose for Xander.  Didn’t really matter if Xander suffered, afterall he’d killed the lovely dependable George; so I didn’t have much sympathy.

John liked the idea of me inheriting music royalties.  Xander was despatched and given his history of substance abuse, no-one was surprised.  It was great with John for eighteen months, having sex while taking ecstasy is wonderful.  Then I got fed up of it and I didn’t like John’s habit of leaving his hairs in the sink after shaving.  Dan was a cop who was exploring some irregularities surrounding Xander’s death; he fell totally in love with me during his investigation.  He liked upholding the law, I like breaking it, so we had loads in common.  He arrested John for Xander’s murder, John tried to make out that I’d had a part in it, what rubbish!  Such a shame that John died after a beating in prison while on remand.  Lovely of Dan to arrange it.

Dan was a pain.  Wouldn’t let me leave the house, suspicious, can’t think why.  I’d sit on the window ledge staring out at the street.  Dmitri would see me on his way home at night, I’d open my window and we’d have a chat.  He was shocked to learn that Dan wouldn’t let me leave the house.  Dmitri was from Russia and I’ve been more people than one of those Russian dolls – an identity for every new man - so we have loads in common.  So kind of him to run Dan over in his 4x4.

Curiously, once I’d moved in with Dmitri, I realised I didn’t actually feel anything.  I’d look at us in the mirror and see two strangers; he seems older and fatter than the man I saw out of my window.  I’m trying to evoke those first feelings of passionate love I’d had with ... when had I last felt that way?  Xander?  I miss Xander and George.  George was always there for me and Xander was FUN.  Still, can’t go back now, can only continue.  Onwards and upwards.

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.