Sex and Murder Magazine

By Keely Christensen

My husband killed me last night.

He shot me in the head while I was sleeping. I wish I knew why…

We had such a great day that day too. I had woken up really early and thought I’d make him a scrumptious breakfast in bed. I put a single rose in that vase we got from our wedding and brought the tray into him right when the sun rose. There was freshly squeezed orange juice as well.

Later in the afternoon, while he was working in the garage, I went to town to do some shopping. I thought that I’d make it a special night, and I finally bought that red silky lingerie I’d been eyeing. I figured that I’d cook a nice, romantic dinner, wearing that and those stilettos I had in the closet. I knew he was going to love it.

Instead, he just stayed in the garage all day. I checked up on him once, but he barely said a word to me. An “I’m busy” was all I got. I told myself he was just having a bad day—everyone has those once in a while. So, I cleaned the house from top to bottom in order to cheer him up when he decided to come inside.

I must not have done a good enough job.

I never felt as though I was a bad wife. I tried my hardest to keep us in a happy, healthy relationship. Yet, no matter what I did, he always seemed like he was too worried or stressed or depressed to be happy.

Like the time when the dog had an accident on the carpet. My Love was so disappointed. He had spent the past, I don’t know how many weeks, trying to housetrain that yappy little shit. So, I broke his neck and hung him outside the back door. Damn four-legged piss-ant wasn’t going to crap in the house again. I figured he’d be grateful that I saw, acted upon, and took care of the problem.

Or even when I tried to cheer him when he lost his job. It wasn’t his fault that the website had the wrong price listed and the company lost a few thousand dollars. He wasn’t the final editor. No…no. The final editor was that woman he was having an affair with. Well, at least I think he was. Either way, it was her fault that he got fired, and that wasn’t right. It was a lot of fun when I cut her tits off. Probably one of the most fun times of my life. I even kept her missing poster in my “treasure box.”

No matter what I did, it never seemed good enough, though. Because now I’m dead.

My husband killed me last night.

I wish I knew why…