Her Suicide Meant Nothing To Me

Her suicide meant nothing to me. I found her dead on a cold Saturday night, pale, long gone. She laid on the living room floor, but I didn’t bother to care how it happened. She must’ve taken something, from the way her mouth was left agape and her throat seemingly choked. It was no mystery, and I was not surprised this was the way she had fallen. In fact, i’ve partly been wishing on it.

She left her note to me taped to her hand, as if I would get down on my knees and read such a garbage-filled worded poetry. As if I would even get close to her. Even if it was plastered and printed on every wall in that house, hell even if it was every cloud in the sky, i’d stab my two eyes, then go deaf before someone read the stupid thing to me. Only thing I did do, was reach for the half-filled ink pen she used to write it. It was expensive to say the least, I only kept it for important letters.

I was glad enough her suicide was a clean and quick one. Not because it was better on her behalf, but it made things easier for me. No blood to wipe, no weapons to hide, just her sick body to throw out in the back. Her sick, ugly, used up body. The sight of her death brought me no disgust, only that hideous look on her face.

At first, I had liked the idea of having a girl so docile of my own. She was obedient, only having the use of being mine and the use for my pleasure. I would have preferred a blonde, but a man could only dream of his one true girl. Young and naive, she was close to perfect. In her ears, I told her dreams of lies, and promises I wished never to truly fulfill. It gave my heart a rise, the way her eyes would sparkle to my words, but that rise was not of love, I think that I just really liked lying to her.

Months passed, and I had decided a grand idea. I would marry the girl. She had proven to me how easy she was, how to get under her skin without truly loving her. I could play with her like this forever. This would officially mark her as my wife, and by wife, I mean dog. 

I stood across from her at the alter. Her smile made me happy, for it was at this moment she had made the biggest fool of herself, without even realizing. I gave her a deceivingly look back, eyeing her up and down, for she was nothing but a bitch with a ring on her finger. How could one girl be so stupid? I didn’t really question that then, I liked it, she was stupid enough to toy with.

We found ourselves a home on a hilltop lot. Away enough for others not to see what I was doing to her, but close enough to be normal. And painted together, we did look normal. She looked like any innocent wife, and I, a man who loved that wife. That played a good part as to why she had stayed the way she was for so long, without anyone around to suspect a thing, she was only stuck with me. Me to give her that false sense of hope that she was truly loved.

She was a prostitute before I had met her. Seventeen years old she was, and I saw her on the street, completely desperate. I love, love the look on desperate girls. A week later, I found her again in a local bar. She was alone, and that was perfect for me. I sat next to her, bought her drink, pretend I was interested in her character. I listened to her sob story, and although I hardly paid attention, I knew this was the perfect opportunity. I promised her a life where she knew no pain, and that slut, how she caved into it.

We got married in the fall, and after a year, that girl changed. Something became twisted of her. My wife, the little girl, turned into an ugly, horribly ugly woman.

A ruckus she made out of everything. All I heard of her was whining, complaining, weeping, feelings a girl should hide from her husband. It was as if she thought she could be independent in her way, as if she was really somebody. Her, somebody? The fact she had that idea in her head made me laugh, even infront of her face. She was worth nothing, even to me, let alone to this world.

Now I know what you may be thinking, why stay with her now? That question is easy to answer, because it amused me. Of course, I hated it. I incredibly hated it, and her. She was an annoyance, but at the same time, I was only fooling her more. After she finished her bitching riot, after countless arguments and threats, I felt her at night. I felt her hold against my arm, waiting for my half-assed attention to her, the one i’d given her when we first met. I gave it to her, I did, because it gave me the satisfaction knowing I was lying to her, knowing she had yet again fell to it.

I was working the night she died. I worked from ten to twelve, and after I left my job, I found myself at the same bar I had met her. I missed her, not really her honestly, her innocence, her sweet stupidity. I drank, I drank and I drank and I drank. You know, if there is one I did not lie about to her, it was my faithfulness. I was righteous. Why, because two useless whores defeats the purpose of one. So when women came up to me, sliding their finger to my ring, pulling it away from mine, I backed away. I kept to myself. I really was a good husband on the outside.

At three, I came back home, and she had committed suicide what I would guess five hours before I had returned home. 

I wrapped her body in the blankets of our bed, and threw her to the garbage bin. She would have died much better a blonde.