It was the twitching of her fingers that told me something was wrong. They convulsed and wiggled. Like a mass of mating snakes, they continued to twist and clench and lengthen and pinch.

The next few days I was walking on cloud nine. I could scarcely contain my excitement, my pleasure, my meek composure. I would often find myself drawn to the garage, over to my workbench, under which sat a metallic lockbox my father had left to me in his will from his time in the service. I usually hid my extra change and a few emergency cigarettes from my wife in there. Now, placed above all of that in both importance and position, sat the heavy gift I had received from Allen T. Watts.

The night of the Shriner’s convention finally came. I was so excited for my chance to meet my hero that I was in a daze for days. Nothing that my wife could do or say could affect me now. She was on borrowed time. She was flailing, that was all. Flailing like a person drowning, getting her last few strokes in before it all ended.

I knew that my decision to kill her was the right one. She made me aware of this all the time. You see, I might have changed my mind. I probably would have, I would have given her mercy. I’m no killer, really I’m not. Clarissa, though? She’s a killer through and through.

My life continued on in this manner. At the office, riding the bus, reading the newspaper. My life on the outside still looked calm and collected and boring. But inside? Inside of my head was a whole different story. It was madness and mayhem. It was power and poetry. It was constant action. My mind was turning my humdrum life into a nonstop twenty four hour adventure, with myself as the central character, the antihero, the protagonist.

I am writing this note solely out of respect for my mother, and also out of spite for my wife. My wife, that miserable wretched bitch, she’s the real reason I’m doing this. Why I did any of this. It’s her fault that we’re both dead.

The next day flew by in a blur. All of us around the base were quiet. Real quiet. Yet I knew, on the inside, for all of us, we still heard the screaming. The shooting. The wet sounds of blood spilling from innocent bodies. There was red on our minds and behind our shut eyes.

I think that by this point, I’m the only person left on this earth. Well, the only normal person, that is.

If you’re reading this, I am already dead.