My Murderer WifeMature

 

My Murderer Wife

 

I have never been a very actively aggressive person. In order for the anger to get out of my system, it has always needed the help of someone else. I suppose that made me very susceptible to her and her charms. I remember the first time I saw her. August the fourteenth, two thousand and two; that was the date when my life really ended. She was sitting there, by the bar at a relatively busy London Club. She was so obviously beautiful; long black hair, straightened down to elbow height, a face so enigmatic, so pretty, and yet so inexplicably irresistible. Yet, that I didn’t know what horrors those seductively pale green eyes were masking. She was a deeply twisted and psychologically deranged psychopath, and I began to fear as the months of our relationship went on, turning far too soon into years, and then a marriage, that she was turning me into one as well.

Apparently, she told me later that she had always wanted to commit murder. This was long after our, or rather, her first killing, as the me from then would have been doubtless horrified, and would have run as far away from her as I could. But she waited until we had been married over a year. It had been a happy year; I had noticed nothing unusual about her. The only thing that I could put to her was a slight kinkiness, but I didn’t see it for the full sickening sexual perversion that I saw it for, and made her believe that I enjoyed, later on.

I didn’t mind the kinky. But when she slowly began to put images and ideas of her fantastical murder idea, I was very scared. I didn’t know what to do. I loved her. More than I had ever loved before. At the end of the day I was always happy because she was there to look after me. In all my daydreams as a seventeen year old, I had never once imagined that I would actually end up with a girl like her. And now she was telling me that she wanted to kill someone, for sexual kicks. I said no immediately, dismissing it as some repressed emotion from years ago, which had been brought out by the excessive alcohol  she had consumed that night. I put it from my mind, not even thinking about it again.

That’s what I though I was doing. She didn’t say another word on the matter, so I assumed that I had put the idea from her imagination. I assumed wrongly. It happened late two thousand and five. It was just after our anniversary, and I was all happy from the romance in the air, and hotly anticipating the bout of passionate lovemaking that had followed every night in the week. We were in high spirits. We had been drinking excessively all day, and most of the week as well. It was undoubtedly the alcohol that persuaded me.

It was one o’clock at night. We were due back in our apartment for sex at around two. I didn’t want to wait for an hour, so I was about to suggest that we take the car back, before she spoke first.

“Let’s go out for a drive” she said. Let’s go out for a drive. Those words were the ones that sealed my fate. They made me into this animal that I have now become. The hatred I have for myself, all the guilt and shame that the sane side of me felt for the rest of my despicable life are pent up on those deceivingly innocent words. “C’mon, let’s go for a drive.” She repeated. I thought I shouldn’t. I had had a bottle of wine and far too much beer to myself, so I was in no fit state to drive, but she was insistent. She said that I would be fine to drive, and that was all the stupid, drunken me needed to persuade it. But it wasn’t the police that ended up making me regret that night for the rest of my godforsaken life.

We went out in the car. Into the city. It was empty, barely a prostitute on the streets, the street lights paving the way to our destiny. Turned a corner. There is a girl standing there, her thumb out in the international symbol for hitchhikers. I think nothing of it, but she, sitting next to me says we should pick her up. If only I hadn’t listened and sped off through the city, then my life might not have taken such a terrible turn. Or perhaps it would have. Love for a woman is a truly deadly thing.

I stop. She gets in. says thank you. I never found out her name. My wife smiles and the girl shut the door. She is about seventeen, very attractive with blonde curly hair. Ironically, I remember thinking then and there that this was no time for a young girl to be roaming the streets. I thought that she must have gotten herself involved in prostitution, as she seemed to be scantily clad and looking for a ride home, smelling of shame. You can’t be sure what monsters lurk on those streets. It turned out that they were also lurking on the seats of my car.

Suddenly, my wife locks the central locking on the doors. I didn’t think anything of it until the girl on the back seat was screaming. It took me by such surprise that I forced myself to look in the rear view mirror. My wife has a knife. From the kitchen, but it is still very sharp. The poor girl was spread as far away from it as she could be, trying to scrabble out of the door. But it was useless, the doors were all locked. I was about to shout something, but before I could, the wife shouts with surprising ferocity at me.

“PULL OVER!”

I was so shocked that I obliged. Slamming the breaks, the car skidded to a standstill by the side of a country lane. I didn’t realise how long we had been moving.

She smiles. This scares the girl more. The look of pure terror in her eyes will be with me until I died. Wife moves backwards, tearing a piece of material from her shirt. Her right breast is now clearly visible, and this gives my wife more sadistic pleasure. She climbs back until she is sitting next to the girl. Using the shirt, she gags the girl and binds her legs and arms. She cannot move with her hands now behind her back.

Wife orders me to drive home. She still has the knife, so I feel obliged to do so. Silently, I drive home, no sound but the roar of the engine and the worry in my chest. We get in. wife tells me to help her. The girl is struggling, but we can easily take her in. we are alone for a few miles, so no neighbours to worry about. When we are inside, I go in the shower, the hot water helping me to process the information that I have witnessed. I get out, and walk naked into the bedroom, almost forgetting that we have a visitor. What I can see is truly horrifying. The girl is tied, naked; face up on the bed, still gagged, and biting the material of my wife’s shirt in an attempt to set her free.

“What do you think?”  

This was my wife’s first question, delivered with a dreadful smile, again completely naked. I was still quite drunk, so I don’t remember what I said, but whatever my answer was it was definitely the morally wrong one, as my wife walks over to hug me, and after several seconds, she turns and smiles again at the girl. She walks over slowly, the knife still in hand.

The acts that my wife committed, and forced me to commit that night were so severe I will not write them here. Needless to say, there was lots of unwanted touching and molesting, and when my wife made me join in, I did as she instructed. I couldn’t stop thinking of the poor girl that I was raping, crying there in her nightmare. Eyes closed. Didn’t want to give us the satisfaction of seeing the fear, but the fear was clear without the look in her eyes. Crying, her tears cutting into me forever. The blood soaked the sheets incredibly vibrantly, many wounds now adorning the chest and face of the girl.

When I had finished, my wife, picked up her knife. I knew what she was about to do a spilt second before it happened. I just about had time to look away. One last scream from the girl. Then silence. I look again. The girl is dead, my wife holding a blood stained knife. One clean cut to the neck. The bed is soaked red, the sheets sodden through with the girls life giving liquid.

The rest of that evening is a complete blur to me. As far as I can remember, I helped my wife cut up the body, and we put it into a black carrier bag. She made me take it to a skip, and dispose of it there. Dead flesh. Nothing left but decaying meat. And my fault. All my fault it was. Could have stopped her. I could have saved that girl. But I didn’t. This simple act proves that I am a weak minded man, of little backbone or substance. If had had the courage to stand up to my wife that night then we wouldn’t have committed the atrocities that we later committed. We committed. We. I say we, as from that night onwards I was, as you might say, a ‘psychopath’. I had joined with my wife on the other side of the sanity line, and I will remain there forevermore.

Perhaps it was the trauma of being forced to rape someone else. I many ways, I had been raped, but the girl didn’t know that. I had just been one with my wife, a brutal and harsh torturing, raping, and finally, killing machine. This trauma may be the reason for me carrying on with the whole affair, but that does not excuse the fact that I took over twenty peoples lives, with my wife pushing me to do so.

I didn’t know this of the time. After we got rid of the body, very little was said about that night between the two of us. I thought that it was a one off; her thirst for blood had now been quenched. But again, I was wrong. About two months later, my wife approached me again, and this time she was exceptionally blunt about it.

“We are doing another one. Next week. Thursday. At three o’clock. Same as last time.”

I had no say in the matter. My wife, as you can imagine was a very strong character, and I being rather weak didn’t want to argue with her. Again, we are back to my weakness as person. My need to always be pushed or led into situations proved my downfall, as when the killings started again they didn’t stop for a good few months. Police or anyone didn’t catch on. We made it sure to kill prostitutes, those at the bottom of the social ladder, with no one to protect them or anyone to bat an eyelid if they were found to be missing. That is the despicable truth about this world. If we had killed an upper or even middle class girl, then a manhunt would have undoubtedly have been started for us. But because no one cared about these girls, then we were safe. From the police, at least, but the killing had put lots of strain on my marriage. I began to fear my wife, and fear for my own safety. She was a dangerous woman. So dangerous, that it was soon after the eighteenth death that I decided to end it. Eighteen deaths. Eighteen brutal, torturous and perverted rapes, tortures, and deaths. It had to end; I had to kill my wife.

I didn’t care, as I was almost certainly destined to go to hell anyway. If there even is such a thing as heaven and hell. These past months my faith has been stretched to breaking point.

However, killing my wife would not be easy. She was a very cautious and paranoid woman. I decided to stay out at a pub for most of the night, come home later on and stab her in her sleep. I would then turn myself in for all of the murders. It seemed fair. I would rid the world of one evil soul, and the world would then rid itself of another. Seemed about right to me.

The plan started well enough. I was at the pub, drinking lemonade and orange juice all night. I didn’t want to be drunk for later on, although it would have made my night go much quicker and smoother. Well, at least from my point of view.

Three o’clock. Left the bar after last orders, then wandered round for a bit. This city repulses me. The stench of alcohol infused guilt lingers on every street corner, the sounds of pleasure seekers walking, trying to find their next hooker; the street lights looking ever so dreary, as if they are foreboding the terrible actions that will befall many in the coming night. Women selling themselves, selling themselves to the drunk and rich bachelors just so they can afford food, while those young buck’s leave them and go back to their gourmet dinners and five star hotels, living the life. They have eaten their fill tonight. If only the same could be said about those offering their services for afters. I spit on the ground. This city, this terrible place can bring out the true identity of a man, expose his soul for the truth that it is. There is no hiding from the streetlights. They see all; silent witnesses to the horrors of life in this underworld.

Four o’clock. I have finished my wanderings. Start to go back to the car. Then I drive home. The concrete jungle slowly thins, making way to hedges, fields and eventually the moors that cover roughly one fifth of this treacherous place. My heart pumps in my chest, the vital muscle squeezing the blood through my veins and arteries. There is no getting around it; blood is so very precious to us all.

Arrive home. No sound. Wife will be sound asleep. Of course, as I intended. I go to the kitchen. Take a knife from our selection. We have many there, all very curved and brutal, for cutting up meat. That was how they sold them to us. They have proved their moneys worth.

Slowly, silently I creep upstairs. I go to our room. It is only a small apartment, but it has served my wife’s purpose. I step to the door. I put my ear to the soft metal. Listen. I can hear the breathing of a psychopath. My wife the psychopath. I pray. Don’t want repentance, just reassurance that my intended actions tonight are what are best for the world. God says tells me yes. I step through the door. She is there, back turned away from me. Lying there, so peaceful. Who would have thought that such a quaint and attractive body could hold behind it such evil and hate? I take out the knife.

Step over to her. Sit on the bed. Put the knife so it is aiming straight into her spine. I whisper, under my breath, in a faint and tearful sob those words.

“I’m sorry, my love”.

I am about to push. She replies in sleepy, yet undeniably conscious way.

“Sorry for what? What have you done? 

I am so surprised I jump backwards, leaping off the bed. She turns around. I have dropped the knife, and she can see it.

“What is that for, honey?” she asks with more than a hint of force.

 “I just thought… well if you are in the mood for it…” I am surprised by how fluently I lie.

She likes this idea. She pulls over the dark sheets, slightly illuminated by the full moon piercing the night. She pulls away the bed covers, revealing her naked body. I am aroused, but repulsed all at once. I fake a smile. She sits up, reaches for the knife. I sigh internally. She lies back down, knife in mouth with her hands up by the bedpost. Here we go.

Our bodies are covered in sweat, the early morning heat searing our love like an open fire, the passion as we are united in body and soul is immense, and I am taken over by an overpowering lust from inside me. Violent sex is always the best, according to my wife. There are cuts all along my arms, legs and chest, and the same for my wife, self inflicted might I add. The knife, now lying on the floor, caked in a thin layer of our blood is glimmering at me, highlighting my shame. I went in to kill, I came out killing my soul, my faith and my dignity, but this new sense of power, of belonging with my wife was new. I had stopped fighting, and this had made the battle much easier.

It was at this point, that I think I went truly ‘insane’ as you could put it. But how do you define ‘sanity’? One man’s insanity is another’s normality. That was how the new, invigorated me felt. But I really knew that this new character wasn’t the real me. I liked the new power that had, and it was this sense of power that drove me over the edge. Eventually, it proved my downfall, but that was much later.

For the time being, I was overcome by extreme power and wroth. I began to actively take part in the killings, with ever increasing savagery, until I was at the same level of ferocity as my wife. We continued raping, torturing and murdering prostitutes for over three years. Nobody took any notice, or saw a link between all of the bodies found dumped in many a side street. We were happy- we were getting away with our horrific acts, and our marriage was stronger than ever.

Then my wife began to get jealous. She had been fine with witnessing me rape other women. It was a massive sexual stimulant for her, she used to say, but around this time, we had taken a brown haired girl back to the apartment, and she was bound and gagged in the corner, naked of course and crying as we expected. My wife and I were making love on the bed, her head resting on my shoulder so I could see behind her, or more pacifically, the girl. when my wife realised this, she climbed off , me and gave me the most vicious look I have ever seen her give me before, but it was a look that I would grow to love, hate and lust all at once.

She spoke to me, utter cruelty in her voice. “What is wrong? Am I not attractive enough for you any more? You want her, do you?!” I said nothing. That was a mistake. “DO YOU!!!!???” she screamed again, piercing the room with her words.

I roll off the bed, putting my trousers on.

“Of course not babe!” I reply. “Remember, I love you.” I indicated the ring on my finger.

She stares at me, then the girl, who is still whimpering, eyes half closed. Wife walks out the room, throwing the knife at the girl on the way out. She is struck on the face with the slat of the knife. She goes to the floor in pain. Wife continues out the door, her naked body symbolising my undying, and yet somehow decaying love that I have for her, now festering slowly into the rot of hatred.

I lash out in anger at the girl. Hit her again and again, rape her, kick her, hit her again and then I strangle her with my bare hands, my claw-like nails digging into the soft flesh of her young neck. I stand there, breathing heavily, looking over the beautiful mess of her corpse that was once so pretty and young. I run out, trying to find my wife. She has been gone about half an hour.

I found her, crying on the outskirt of the moors. I took her home. I think for the first time, she was scared of me. For the first time in my life I was in domination, in control of another. I liked that, but it came at a price. From that day onwards we no ceased to make love, the unity that had brought us together was gone, vanished and broken when I grew courage. From that moment onwards, when we went to bed together, it was angry hate sex, no love or passion, just a bitter self loathing for each other that had been harvested from my wife’s resentfulness at being the second in command. But I wasn’t going to give up my position. I was the dominator.

My wife’s jealousy grew and grew until it overcame her completely. She tried to get me to stop raping and killing all together. The plan failed, and I hit her face hard. It was the first of many. She never raised her voice to me again. She cried when we tortured, wept when we raped and the tears fell freely down her cheeks when we killed. My transformation was complete.

It must have been this that made her want to kill me, and me her. I couldn’t stand the woman that I so furiously loved. Our passion was insatiable, unquenchable and never ending, but the pure disgust and contempt we felt for each other was so immense that despite her attractiveness I was forced to think of others during our love making. I loathed the creature, and I could tell that she hated me more than I could her, because she was scared of me. I was in control.

I walked into the flat one night. That night. My last night. It was dark. The lights refused to turn on. I thought the fuse had blown. I was too tired to fix it at such an hour, so I carried on upstairs in complete blackness. My footsteps seemed to echo throughout the entire house, framing my sudden unease with a growing sense of suspicion.

I step into my room. Darkness. The window is open; I can see vaguely the outlines of shapes in the moonlight. My wife is on the floor, naked, her skin highlighted by the pale white of the cool, crispness of the July moon; the crevice of her breasts a distant valley to me, doing nothing to aid my libido anymore. I remember a time when the mere sight of her nakedness would send me crazy, but those times are long gone. She is dead to me now, the love I once felt filled with a loathsome hatred

The bed was gone. This was extremely odd. The room is bare, the pictures adorning the walls no longer taking place in the master bedroom. She is awake. She smiles at me, amused by my perplexed look. I look deep into her eyes. There is nothing, just a blank, silent window into the soul of one psychopath, to be thrown onto the pile with all the other nutcases.

 

She stands up at the other end of the room, getting as far away as she can, hiding the gun that was so obviously concealed in her left hand.

I should have moved, but I didn’t. I wanted to die. My time had come to pass, and I was just one man. No one man has the power to evade his destiny. I knew then and there that it was right for me to pass on. In the few seconds that I knew I had left to utter the few words my brain could formulate.

“Why? Why babe? This is not you.” At that last instant, she smiled again, revealing her dazzlingly perfect white teeth.  She spoke the last words I would hear from a mortal soul and flexed her right index finger a centimetre towards herself.

 

“Sorry honey. You were just to damn good.”

 

I never found out what she meant, because a fraction of a second later she sent a 19mm bullet into my upper chest, just above the heart. It made no difference, I was still instantly dead, but that split second of uncontrollable agony was glorious. A great serial killer once said that to here the blood rushing from his neck during decapitation “would be the pleasure to end all pleasures”. As it turned out, he was totally right. I still think about it now, because the only thing you can experience in Hell is pain. Bit of a loophole for the masochists like me though, they really didn’t think that one through. I would be having a much worst time if we were forced to do nothing all day.

Remorse? Not a chance. I may have been turned into a monster by that woman, but it was a monster that I grew to love. I am still walking in the shoes of that evil. If I could do it all again, I would, and I would do it more. But if it had been up to me, I would have ensured that I would have killed my murderer wife before that bitch got me. 

The End

0 comments about this story Feed