My Murderer Wife - Part 2
The story concludes...
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 noticed, or saw a link between all 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 realized 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 symbolizing 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, so 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 bed is 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. In the few seconds that I knew he 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, spoke the last words I would hear from a mortal soul and flexed her right index finger a centimeter 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", which is absolutely true. 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.
As for my wife, she is still currently in the cities state mental hospital. After her arrest, she confessed to all the murders, but pinned them on the now conveniently dead me. She wasn't believed of course, and despite her plea for execution she was confined for life in the Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Or something like that. I check up on her every now and again, just watching her, rocking back and forth in her blank, padded cell, murmuring indecipherable utterances, revolving around me most probably. I dread the day when she does die and join me her, so I am relishing ever day without her.
And there we are. I am dead, killed by the woman who turned me into the killer that I became, who is doing the time for our crimes. Ironic really, she made and destroyed the monster, but was labeled a monster herself. I will ask her when she arrives about her final words to me, for I have no hope of finding out without her; let's just say unique, mind and tongue.
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 realized 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 symbolizing 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, so 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 bed is 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. In the few seconds that I knew he 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, spoke the last words I would hear from a mortal soul and flexed her right index finger a centimeter 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", which is absolutely true. 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.
As for my wife, she is still currently in the cities state mental hospital. After her arrest, she confessed to all the murders, but pinned them on the now conveniently dead me. She wasn't believed of course, and despite her plea for execution she was confined for life in the Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Or something like that. I check up on her every now and again, just watching her, rocking back and forth in her blank, padded cell, murmuring indecipherable utterances, revolving around me most probably. I dread the day when she does die and join me her, so I am relishing ever day without her.
And there we are. I am dead, killed by the woman who turned me into the killer that I became, who is doing the time for our crimes. Ironic really, she made and destroyed the monster, but was labeled a monster herself. I will ask her when she arrives about her final words to me, for I have no hope of finding out without her; let's just say unique, mind and tongue.
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