Fifty Ways

50 Ways to Kill Your Lover

"I've killed her, I've killed her!" I screamed and then repeated it
again but in a hushed tone of wonderment, "I've really done it, I've
killed her."

"Don't worry Mr Chanson, we know, we know, it's alright." The
policewoman laid a hand on my arm sympathetically. There was another
woman in the room, a doctor or social worker or something I
think.

"We all understand, it's nothing to blame yourself for, it's just a
horrible accident."

Ah, but it wasn't you see.

Soon after we got married I knew we'd made a terrible mistake. It
wasn't so much that we argued, it was just that we were so
incompatible. We shared very few attitudes to life and whatever love or
attraction was once there must have died, unnoticed, early on. But for
some reason, probably a lot to do with moral cowardice, we stayed
together and started to bring up a family. That became a distraction
for the last 10 or 12 years. But just underneath the surface things
were completely dead between us and I'd long known that there'd be
nothing to spark any recovery. It was a long, long time since we had
any fun. I resented the way she'd become a bitter and small minded
person with no self confidence and totally negative about every
situation. It really was depressing and had a bad effect on me. More
and more over the years I became a totally different person when I was
away from home.

My father hardly ever had two pennies to rub together, yet he was
always charitable, always giving to undeserving people. I had a similar
belief that if nothing else you could always be sympathetic, generous
in spirit. On the other hand my wife increasingly despised people who
were down on their luck. She would rant on in true vitriolic tabloid
fashion, oblivious of any facts. To some extent how we all behave and
what we all believe is a very private thing but my wife started to take
it further, she would stop me from giving to good causes. It culminated
when there was a chap at a motorway service station who knocked on our
car window and begged us for some money. It was clear to anyone that
this person was genuinely desperate. Yet my wife's influence meant that
I mumbled something and started to drive on. But I immediately felt
ashamed of myself so I backed up and gave the bloke a fiver and started
to drive off. My wife howled, threw her door open and snatched the
money back. I've never felt so small. Even now, years later as I write
this, I physically cringe and feel disgusted at this memory.

One time when we hadn't been married very long and we didn't yet have
kids, after much encouragement from me she went on a long week-end away
with some girl friends. They went away for about four days, pretty
expensive it was too, they went somewhere on the med I think. I know
from the others that they had a superb time and that she seemed to
pretty much enjoy herself in her own way and no, there hadn't been any
scenes. However, my younger sister was one of the party. Now she is an
attractive doctor and just a through and through a nice person. She
doesn't like her - it's definitely jealousy, it visibly burns her up. I
went to collect her at the airport at some ungodly hour, and for the
whole two hours back I just got an earful of vicious comments about my
sister. It was ceaseless. The exaggeration, the pettiness, the hatred
just came pouring out incessantly. At this time I owned a big old heavy
Rover, lots of old-world comfort, massive boot. The boot was one of
those old ones which you had to lift right up and it sort of locked,
took quite an effort, if I was parked on a slope, I could only just
about manage it. Then, when you brought it down it didn't have dampers,
so when you got it past the critical point it would slam down under its
own momentum and the whole vehicle would shudder pretty impressively.
Well we got home and she was still nagging on, I'd pulled what I
thought was the last bag out of the boot and without looking slammed
the lid down, out of the corner of my eye I saw she was still leaning
in, in that split second I was elated, I was sure that there was no way
anyone could survive that boot smashing down on their head or neck, but
again, in a fraction of a second, something must have rolled loose, so
she reached further into the boot, really it was so massive that her
feet were practically off the ground, as a result she took the blow
across the shoulders which were well protected by a thick jumper and a
coat of some sort, but my god did I hear about it. I tried to keep the
incident quiet - not because I was embarrassed by it but because I had
every intention of using the ploy again when the opportunity arose and
so I didn't want anyone making the connection that "hadn't that
happened before". Unfortunately, once she recovered, she dined out on
the story - well it gave her so much legitimate opportunity to attack
and belittle me. So I had to rule out that particular solution. It
wasn't long before I sold that car in disgust - got a lot of money for
it too, almost a collector's item by then, little did the purchaser
know that it could have been priceless to me.

About this time I became pre-occupied with that old best-man joke about
if you want to know what your wife will be like in 10 years time, take
a good look at her mother today. I wish I had. My mother in law was
simply a terribly bitter and twisted person, I'm sorry to say that in
personality and spirit she was just thoroughly unpleasant. Worse still
was that she'd led something of a charmed existence and had nothing to
feel resentful about. But I'd noticed that my wife was becoming
physically and behaviourally more and more like her mother. One thing
I'd notice was how much they begrudged people their good luck. I think
we all feel a bit envious at times, and can even be a little resentful
when someone less deserving than ourselves is doing much better but not
on any meritocratic basis but due to luck or politics or whatever. But
I think we all usually realise that that's life, the way of the world
and we tend to console ourselves with the idea that there are equally
people who don't get the luck they deserve, who struggle more than us
when from any angle they are the better, more deserving human being.
But my mother-in-law and increasingly her daughter, would make
irrationally vicious comments with the least provocation and it would
become extremely uncomfortable to be around them. Well, this
resemblance of mother and daughter was so striking that I was convinced
it must be genetic. I started do some research and became convinced
that the pair suffered from some form of chronic clinical depression.
For months I carried round this theory and became more convinced of it
as more and more conforming incidents arose. I was waiting for the
right moment to broach the subject. When it did arise I was surprised
that my wife first listened with intelligent interest whereas I had
expected vicious denial. However, very quickly it developed into a
petty argument with accusations and counter-accusations. And really
this was the pattern for many years when I tried to address things. I'd
have done a lot of observation, may be some reading, developed an idea
over time and then tested it with a further period of careful
observation. So that, being as objective as I could be, I was happy
that my analysis was reasonably robust. But whenever I'd try to have a
sensible discussion things would soon descend into a childish
tit-for-tat slanging match. What frustrated me was I'd be speaking from
a reasonably factual or at least a well considered position, whereas
her defence and counter-attacks were spur of the moment emotional
reflexes, not well grounded or thought out. But it was beyond me to
find a way through. Well the point was, I think within herself she
accepted there was something wrong but she just wouldn't do anything
about it. I wasn't thinking of psychiatric treatment necessarily but
perhaps something else medical, or at least if she wasn't so
intellectually lazy, perhaps she could do some reading or research or
go on some courses, as long as she did something. I even bought a
couple of books for her, which she pointedly disregarded.

My idea of a healthy romantic relationship, was that each partner made
the other grow. True partners have the ability to bring the best out of
each other. Where there is love and mutual respect, partners positively
glow in each others' presence, it's palpable and their spirits are
lifted just by being with each other. In contrast she stunted me. She
made me cautious and cynical, I hated what she'd done to me. I fought
against it but years and years of harping on just eroded my spirit,
wore down my optimism my joie de vie. As a younger man I was noted for
looking on the bright side, on seeing every situation or turn of events
as an opportunity. These days all I saw were problems and risks. Her
incessant pessimism inevitably rubbed off on me. I was a man of action,
by nature I'd like to do something, to try anything, rather than to
wait and let things happen or to let others seize the situation. But I
became increasingly indecisive even nervous and reactive. I hated
having to recognise these qualities in myself but had no doubt of their
source.

There are plenty of loveless marriages that work in their own way after
a fashion, may be this even applies to the majority of marriages.
That's what I tried for. I had a lot of pride and commitment and whilst
the kids were younger they were a diversion from the fact that we had
no real partnership, no friendship, no light-hearted moments, it was a
hard struggle. I used to think that there must be loads of priests out
there who had lost their faith and by that I mean fundamentally lost
their faith in the sense that they no longer believed in god at all.
Doubtless many of these men would then leave their church. But I felt
certain that many more would nevertheless feel they'd made a commitment
that couldn't be cast aside so easily so they'd stick it out, going
through the motions out of a sense of duty and in the hope that
somewhere along the line, something would happen so that they'd leave
the church on an involuntary basis with the moral satisfaction that
they'd got the freedom they sought without a deliberate act of
rejecting the principles that they'd held so dear and preached so
fervently. This was how I felt. I wanted out, I knew the door was
always open but I was trapped by my own standards and beliefs. I
desperately wanted fate to intervene.

I really don't know at what point I discarded the idea of a divorce. I
have to admit that it had something to do with a stigma of failure
which I couldn't accept, or didn't feel was fair. There was also all
the financial complexities, which as far as I could make out would
leave me penniless for many years, whichever way it worked out. And
once again I didn't feel it was right for me to be financially as well
as spiritually impoverished on account of making just one devastating
mistake.

There was one time when for a period of two months, I carefully watched
and registered what happened every morning. It turned out that about 9
times out of 10, usually before I'd got out of bed and certainly before
I'd finished getting changed, she'd have said something negative, or
panicky or just plain nasty. I just couldn't understand what she had to
feel so depressed about. The trouble was that when the day got off to a
bad start barely before it had begun, things invariably got
progressively worse. I realised that the change had happened bit by bit
starting from before we were even married, so it wasn't a sudden
change-of-life-hormonal-thing although I'm sure those sorts of factors
didn't help. I'm sure you're thinking that this couldn't have been
one-sided, that I must have changed and somehow provoked or contributed
to this change of personality. It'd be nice in these days of political
correctness, of reconciliation, the no blame society etc to admit that
we'd both contributed equally to the downfall of our relationship.
However there were some clues - no, it was stronger than that - some
clear signs that I wasn't deluding myself, I was definitely the much
more innocent party. On those increasingly rare occasions when we'd run
into old friends, there was one comment that was always made - Emyr,
you haven't changed a bit. I noticed that my name was nearly always
added as if to emphasise that whilst I hadn't changed, she had. You
could also detect that newer friends and neighbours remained warm
towards me but would soon become quieter, more distant with her.
Overall it was simply painful. Nagging and stressing about trivial
things that just didn't matter, truly of no consequence but which had
the effect of setting my nerves on edge right from the start of almost
every day.

One strange thing which others came to notice with increasing
embarrassment was the way she'd run me down in public in my presence.
At one time we socialised a fair amount with a group of neighbours.
They were all pretty regular people, with their ups and downs and
domestic challenges. But I never heard any of these people attack their
partners publicly. Yet she would always criticise me for no reason. I'm
not being over-sensitive, this wasn't simple mickey taking, there was
something quite disturbing about it - it was always unprovoked, indeed
unrelated to any of the preceding flow of conversation and it always
had a strong streak of nastiness instead of having an ironic or
humorous edge. She could turn almost any topic of conversation into an
opportunity to point out some shortcoming or failing of mine. I was
unsociable, an underachiever, bad tempered etc. I used to sit in
silence, there was nothing I could say that wouldn't make things worse.
I used to look into people's eyes and behind them and see the surprise
- was I really this person they didn't recognise, why was she
humiliating me in this way, what had provoked it. The one thing that
kept me going was there was often an undertow of sympathy along with
the puzzlement. Once or twice people would quietly ask me if we'd just
had a row, once or twice people would ask me why she acted like that -
I had no answers, I didn't even have many theories, all I had was the
pain. Pain and the deep disappointment at the way my life was turning
into such a waste but at the same time I was almost as disappointed to
see how an attractive, vivacious girl could turn into this miserable
prematurally middle-aged gossip.

She had many hurtful techniques. She was the mistress of insinuation.
She was so skilful in public at making sure that her worst assaults on
me were made obliquely. She wouldn't say "Emyr says this" or "Emyr
always does that", but she'd hide behind a "Well, lots of idiots
say&;#8230;" or "Can you believe that some morons
actually&;#8230;.". Just in case any of the audience hadn't got the
point, she had this knack of pausing and glancing at me so that the
implication was absolutely clear. Being accused but not accused was
clever, I had to admire it, it's difficult to defend yourself when
you're not overtly being attacked. I made the mistake once or twice of
trying but found that this made me appear aggressively
thin-skinned.

Some time ago she noticed a bit of discolouring on her shoulder. A
small lump soon developed. Over a period of weeks she went to the
doctor, then a specialist, then a clinic and finally to the hospital
where she had the lump removed under local anaesthetic and it was
subsequently declared benign. Those weeks were a very distressing time
for her. But for me I just couldn't suppress the hope that this was the
big c and that it was either well advanced or incurable, such that I'd
soon be free of her. I started planning in my mind how I'd start
working part-time only and get a nanny to help with the kids. I thought
of the money I'd get from life insurance and so forth and all the
things I'd be able to do, free of her petty criticisms. I felt so
cheated when she was given the all clear that I fell into a deep
depression for weeks.

I'm probably giving you the wrong idea by now that I never tried
anything positive to improve things, but I did, really I did. At one
time I sat down and actually mapped out what I'd original seen in her.
I also logged down all the good points that she still displayed. I was
trying to be constructive, trying to focus on the good and then build
on it. The trouble was all the points that were originally attractive
had gone. She'd changed so much. And the good points that remained were
by and large trivial, I found too few saving graces. You're probably
still thinking I'm shallow and unkind but over the years I noticed
people's reactions, former friends would make excuses for not seeing
us, a few whispered comments I'd overhear, and from one or two special
friends, who with a knowing look or a few sensitive words, would make
me feel that at least someone understood what was really going
on.

I can't describe how bad it got. We all go through times when we hope
it's all a bad dream. This was much worse than that. When tragedies
were reported on the news, I used to scream at the god I didn't believe
in, why did he take these good people, why couldn't he take her, her
life was useless, she had nothing good to offer anyone around her, as a
pure mathematical equation the world would be a better place without
her. I used to envy young widowers so much that I would be filled with
rage. May be now you'll understand why I was able to kill her. Life's
for living but she got no happiness from life, was incapable of it, so
it wouldn't be a loss if she was deprived of it. She contributed
nothing to anyone's life other than unhappiness, so if her life was
taken away, the world would actually be a better place. I tortured
myself with these types of debates. But still I persevered and would
encourage her to try things, to do things, to change something -
anything, as she was clearly so desperate with the way things were. But
my suggestions were always met with some sort of lethargy. Actually I
started to believe that she didn't change things because in a perverse,
may be masochistic way, she actually enjoyed things the way she were.
Certainly I had no doubt that she enjoyed complaining and nagging, she
enjoyed creating unpleasant atmospheres, she'd take pleasure when
everyone else was feeling uncomfortable and small. May be it gave her
some feeling of power that she could control the mood around her.

Away from her my life was perfectly enjoyable. I may no longer exactly
be seen as the life and soul of the party, possibly I never had been,
but I think most people found me amiable company and certainly I was
well respected by friends and colleagues. It might be true that people
didn't necessarily seek out my company but I was satisfied that no-one
seemed to deliberately avoid it. I tried to be attentive to what was
going on in people's lives around me - so I'd remember birthdays and
try to remember to ask how big family or social events had gone. This
used to come naturally to me and even though it had now become more of
a conscious effort, I'm pretty sure it was noticed and appreciated. I
tried to be a good person. My kids always teased me but it was true
that every day I tried to be a better person than the previous day.
Doubtless I failed in this most days but the important thing was to
keep trying. The other simple, almost trite moral I tried to live by
was to do at least one good turn a day, I'd get a real kick out of it
when the beneficiary was undeserving or totally surprised. And I tried
to always observe basic courtesies. Even when I'd be getting impatient
about some or other poor service, to my annoyance I'd still find myself
saying please and thank-you. I'm making it sound like I'm perfect but
that's not what I'm trying to portray. But I can honestly say I enjoyed
all the parts of my life that didn't involve her and that I could look
back over my life and feel few misgivings about the way I'd behaved to
my fellow human-beings. I felt reasonably satisfied with what I put
into life and what I took from it too.

I'd always been a keen reader and at some point I took an interest in
murder novels. It started merely as entertainment but soon developed
into something more. Before long I was reading every book I could lay
my hands on. I was fascinated by the forensic process. I became
obsessed with the idea that it was possible to commit the perfect, the
undetectable crime. Rohal Dahl's "Leg" story intrigued me. I read the
books with an analytical interest, where had the perpetrator gone
wrong, what should he have done differently. I had this idea that the
perfect murder needed to be carefully designed and then planned in
detailed. I watched every murder drama and documentary on television. A
shape started to emerge. It seemed obvious to me that it was imperative
not to involve any third party whatsoever. This included buying any
item specifically necessary for the dirty deed. I'd read too many cases
where the most innocuous purchase was remembered by the sales person
for whatever reason, or some item was tortuously traced back to the
original point of purchase to become incontrovertible evidence. It also
became clear to me that a successful murder had to be made to look like
an accident. In this way you didn't have to deny involvement with the
death, you just had to be convincing that it was brought about by
nothing more than a twist of cruel fate. The alternative seemed much
more risky to me. I didn't feel confident that you could let a death be
recognised as a crime but plan on the basis of never being discovered
as the murderer. Another success factor was simplicity - the more
involved the sequence of events, and therefore the subsequent
explanation, the more likely was the plot to unravel itself on some
trivial point of detail. I noticed on tv dramas how so many cases were
solved not by brilliance or subtlety but purely from laboriously asking
simple routine questions and sure enough the dim-witted detective would
inevitably, somewhere along the line stumble across some half truth,
some ambiguity. An elaborate murder meant that too many little details
had to remain consistent. Simplicity was definitely a key component.
And it also seemed to me that a domestic murder had to come about
against a backdrop of absolutely no indication of any matrimonial
problems or difficulties of any sort. Therefore at all times, any
unexpected visitor had to be presented with a perfectly normal front -
not necessarily a lovey-dovey-ness but behaviour and outwardly a
relationship so ordinary that the truth beneath the surface would never
occur to even the most suspicious person. The point was public displays
of disharmony had to be avoided. Therefore I was committed to patiently
keeping up a fa?ade of normality.

In the meantime I was always on the look out for a convenient
opportunity to stage a fatal accident. One time we'd gone down to the
coast with some neighbours. We were walking along some cliffs in the
early evening. Our friends had somehow got 30 or 40 yards ahead of us.
There was nobody else around. There'd been no acrimony between us, just
the usual long and uneasy silence. I spotted our neighbours holding
hands and kissing, just a simple act, nothing overly romantic or
sexual. However this simple gesture made me seethe inwardly. Why
couldn't I enjoy simple happiness, what had I done wrong to be
condemned to this abject misery. As these thoughts were running through
my head we came to a point where the path dipped and turned. I was on
the verge of just gently nudging my wife over the edge. It wasn't
conscience that stopped me. It was the thought that perhaps she'd
survive, may be even as a cripple and I just didn't want the hassle.
No, when the time came, it had to be foolproof. For similar reasons I
discounted other ideas, like tampering with her car. Although one time
when we were driving somewhere and she was bitching on, I'd really had
enough, something momentarily snapped and I considered crashing the car
and taking my chances on which one of us would survive.

Once I was cooking a meal - nothing fancy, just some chops. The thing
is, they were frozen. I prised two of them apart with a sharp knife
which caused its tip to break off. I knew it had happened because I
heard a ping, but I couldn't find the fragment anywhere. I guess I got
distracted and carried on with other things. Later, when the chops were
cooking, I saw the tip embedded in one of the chops. I noticed it was
pretty small but very sharp and hard. I imagined that it could do quite
a bit of damage if it got stuck in your throat. I carefully noted which
chop it was and made sure that I served it to her, fragment side down.
Now if it was me, I'm sure I'd have taken a big bite, a quick swallow,
and bingo the knife tip would have lacerated my throat. But I'll say
one thing for her, she was a good chewer, always took time over her
food. Consequently about halfway through the meal she cried out and
then spat out the sharp tip. No damage done. I made a joke of it, thank
goodness you're alright etc but the look she gave me seemed to say "I
know, you know".

My obsession, or rather my vigilance for any suitable opportunity had
gone on for so long, we could virtually go through each room of the
house and I could recite an episode of what might have been. For
example, let's take the bedroom. A few years ago, on top of everything
else, she started to snore. Loud unpleasant snoring, awful it was.
She'd really lost her looks, her poise her dress sense and now this. It
was so sad. And it was so unfair. I'd always imagined that in
middle-age I'd be some kind of playboy. I'd always pictured myself with
an attractive blonde on each arm. So many people had said that I looked
just like a young Tom Jones, y'see. When I was eighteen or nineteen I
had a wonderful affair with a 30 year old. I was very serious, I think
she was too. But she dumped me. She said that when I got older I'd run
off with a younger woman. I denied it vigorously but she said,
kindly,
"Emyr, I know you mean that now, but you've got strong mature features,
you're going to look so good as you age, you'll look proper
distinguished and all the young girls will go for that."

In some ways she was right. Twenty or more years on, I had very little
grey hair, I'd put on three or four pounds at the most, didn't need
glasses, in truth I was wearing pretty well. I know I'm fooling myself
a bit but certainly I never expected to be lying every night next to an
overweight, shapeless, snoring thing. I propped myself up and stared at
her ugliness. These days she even had a prominent moustache - I'd
hinted and cajoled but she wouldn't do anything about it. It really
saddened me to see what she'd become compared to what she once was, and
it wasn't as if we were decrepit crinklies. So many women of her age
looked so elegant, God what had happened. I've always been a man of
action, so rather than get all morose, I carefully put my elbow on her
windpipe and leaned down on it heavily, I was certain I'd be able to
explain this away as something that must have happened whilst we both
slept soundly. For a few seconds I thought it was going to work, so I
leaned down harder. Just as I thought this was really it she started
choking and some sort of reflex made her push my arm off. She took some
convincing that it wasn't deliberate but I'd had lots of practice at
being contrite, so I think I convinced her. The irony was that as her
neck bruised up, I took some ribbing from the lads about her love
bites.

What's next - the bathroom. Over the years she'd become lazier and
slothful. She'd taken to having long baths at any time of the day. I'd
been doing something around the house or garden and went in to wash my
hands, I didn't realise she was in the bath. It looked like she had
been just about to doze off. Another plan formed quickly in my mind. If
I held her shoulders or head down, this would surely be obvious at a
post mortem, but if I pulled her ankles she'd slip under. I knew her
stomach muscles would be too weak for her to sit up. So all I had to do
was to keep pulling her ankles forward and up then inevitably her face
would go under. This'd be easy to explain - the Bath must've been too
warm officer, look at her book, she must have dozed off and choked
before she'd woken herself up properly. Tragic, truly tragic. I
intruded two or three times on her baths over the next several weeks
but another chance like that never presented itself again.

I thought about poison but as far as I could make out, all poisons were
detectable if there was a thorough post-mortem and then it became
relatively straightforward to trace the purchase of the poison. A
couple of diy disasters led me to think about electrocution and I did
do some reading up so that I had a good idea how to bring this about.
It was an idea that I kept in the back of my head as a possibility.
There was one opportunity I nearly did take. We'd been at a fancy
wedding at some posh hotel. Things had gone pretty well, except that
during the meal she started bad mouthing people, bitching and gossiping
with so much unsubtletly it was physically embarrassing for all of us
at the table. The amazing thing was that she was oblivious to how
uncomfortable she was making everyone feel. I was deeply, deeply
saddened that she'd deteriorated so much that this awful behaviour was
now pretty much the norm for her. A little later, I think the bride and
groom were leaving, we found ourselves side by side at the top of a
grand sweeping flight of marble stairs. I looked and weighed things up.
I was fairly certain that if I pushed her she couldn't survive. I
looked around and thought about it again. Yes, this was it, my golden
chance, I started to position my arm round her back so as to just nudge
her over when someone called out a greeting to me from behind, emerging
from a room I hadn't noticed. I cursed myself for my fatal (or
non-fatal as it happened) hesitation.

Over a period of a couple of years, preying on her natural depression,
I would try to make her commit suicide by putting her under stress by
constantly criticising her and being downright nasty and unfair. It
truly didn't come easy to me. I had to make such a concentrated effort
that I couldn't sustain the campaign for long enough at any one time
for it to be effective.

You must be thinking why didn't I just leave, why was I so obsessed
with getting rid of her. Well of course I did consider it, I considered
it so often. But my thinking was that I enjoyed my life, my home, even
the kids, so why should I leave. She was the one who was permanently
miserable, always moaning, never pleasant. Even kicking her out seemed
too good for her. She really was a waste of a life and so I felt it
right that she should surrender hers. This may seem rather extreme to
you, but believe me, you didn't live through it, I'm certain that in
the end, most people would have done the same as me.

It wasn't the places I wanted to go, the people I wanted to stay
friendly with, the things that I wanted to do that she'd deprived me
of, it was the way she stunted me so I couldn't say or think the things
I wanted to, I couldn't behave the way I wanted to, all in all I
couldn't be the real me. It's not as pathetic as it sounds - it's just
the result of such a long long period of subtle mental pressure, sort
of like protracted psychological torture. Long ago one of my first
serious girl friends gave me a poster which said "No-one can tell the
precise moment when friendship starts. Like filling a glass a drop at a
time, it eventually overflows." Well this was just the opposite, this
was like a tiny leak, emptying the glass one drop at a time, love
drains away imperceptibly and you suddenly realise the glass is empty.
You'd have understood, you'd have been sympathetic if I'd been a child
who was kept for years in a cupboard under the stairs by depraved
parents. Mine was psychological imprisonment rather than physical but
the damage was just as tangible.

There's no way I can get you to understand how awful, how physically
painful living had become. For so many years every exchange, every
minor incident, quickly became a debate or argument, full of poisonous
comment about me or my kids or anyone else who was involved, full of
small minded, unintelligent comments, full of bitterness and
overbearing negativity. All I can say, and I'd thought about this many
times, if I could go back to the point just before we first met and was
given the option of death instead of the meeting that would lead to the
relationship which would result in this horrifying marriage - ending it
all there or else re-run my life in exactly the same sequence as I'd
lived it before, then without doubt, without hesitation I'd choose
death. This would be partly to spare myself the years of abject misery
but also to avoid all the nastiness that would be directed at others -
an act of altruism.

I remember many years ago when I was changing jobs, a female colleague
said she was going to miss me. I laughed and took it as one of those
perfunctory comments we all make in such circumstances but she insisted
that I'd made her feel good about herself. I remember the exact words
because I was so touched. That's how couples should be - happy and able
to rely on each other to pick them up when they're feeling done, as so
many lyrics would have it. She had a stronger power over me, She was
able to make me feel bad, miserable about myself. No matter how bad I
was feeling, if I tried to share it with her, in nano-seconds she'd
make me feel a whole lot worse. If I had a real pig of a day, on top of
a pig of a week, which was fairly normal, and bear in mind I'd be
talking about work related stress, interpersonal issues, money
problems, really heavy-weight, multi-faceted problems, well I could end
up feeling so low. And who to share it with when most friends or
colleagues were either involved in one of the problems themselves or
else I felt obliged to reject them from being the sympathetic ear I
craved on the basis of confidentiality or privacy. Now a normal person
would share with their spouse. Learning slowly from lots of bad past
experience, sharing even a little with her was the thing I'd most
strenuously avoid. Yet inevitably I'd from time to time succumb.
"Christ what a day, d'you know what happened today, can you believe
xyz."
Without even a pause for breath let alone thought she'd rejoin with
something like:
"Well it's your fault, I told you years ago&;#8230;.", or
"You're stupid, why did you do that in the first place..." Why, because
I wanted to cause myself aggravation obviously, why d'you think.
Seriously I could be on the verge of suicide but after mentioning the
diabolical situation to her, I wouldn't say it never seemed quite so
bad but I would realise that contrary to my firm conviction, things
could get just that little bit worse, I now had her piling bricks upon
my back, smearing big handfuls of salt into my weeping wounds. Even
when she didn't say things that were calculated to add to my agonies,
the most she could muster would be pointless truisms or ideas that were
aggravating ridiculous. I even once explained all this to her, and in
fairness she listened and seemed quite shocked. However she wasn't so
shocked as to change the habit of our cursed lifetime. So even more
than before I'd keep things to myself.

You'll be wondering why I ever got married. I think like many men, if
not most men, it is something you drift into. You hope to avoid it but
don't ever seem to be quite in control. I remember before we got
engaged I had grave doubts that we weren't right for each other and
vowed to find a way to break things off. But she started to force
things along, I don't know why, I can't believe it was due to some sort
of deep affection for me, nor was it some hackneyed biological clock
ticking. I just think it's a thing women, even today, tend to do,
almost as if they're pre-programmed. Well she started to make noises
about not waiting forever and the need to engaged. Before I could
design any "let's call it off" plan, let alone put one into action, we
were at the jewellers. Even then I thought something was bound to
happen, or I'd come up with something to bring it to an end, but slowly
and inevitably we drifted towards the iceberg of fate. When the wedding
plans started the actual day seemed far off, so although I started to
get more concerned I didn't feel any great urgency to do something.
This soporific inactivity was just not like me, but it was almost like
I was in a trance. Then she pulled a master stroke, suddenly we found a
house and the wedding was pulled forward. I was out of time. Even the
week before I was waiting for some divine intervention, it was like it
all wasn't happening to me. I'm not being cynical or bitter but even
that last week before such a monumental change of life, I couldn't
muster any excitement. So like so many good men before me, I found
myself at the altar wondering how I got there. Fait accompli, match
over.

What made me realise I had to take drastic action was when she started
to turn her bitter unjust criticisms and negativity on to the kids. The
harping on and on would destroy them. I couldn't let her squeeze all
the character and personality and confidence out of them until they
became uncertain, unhappy people. They were becoming young teenagers,
not perfect, they gave us our fair share of normal adolescent problems.
But I was determined not to let her ruin their spirit. Just one little
example from so many. One time our youngest, who was a very lively
breezy child, came bouncing in from school and was gabbling on about
Spanish and how much she enjoyed it.
"Did you guys do any languages?" she asked, perfectly innocently,
"Well, y'know I can speak a little French, pretty badly"
"Oh yeah, that's right, what about you mum?"
"You know I'm thick," she snarled.
The bewildered look on the child's face was priceless. I couldn't avoid
the issue, if I did nothing she was going to crush them like she had
me.

Without the tacit support of friends and family, the silent
confirmation that she had indeed turned into an awful person, virtually
without a single redeeming feature, I don't think I could have gone
through with it based solely on my own judgement and feelings.

So what did happen?

We had a cupboard under the sink in our utility room. I used to keep my
tool box there. When the kids were little I decided it wasn't the
safest place for it - the sharp and dangerous objects could do all
sorts of damage to little fingers or could find their way into little
mouths. So I moved the tool-box to a sturdy shelf which was a little
over head height above the sink. I say the shelf was sturdy and it
needed to be. The box was a big old fashioned metal one. It was packed
with tools but also numerous packets of nails and screws which meant it
weighed a ton. Over the years the contents gradually accumulated, they
certainly never diminished. For some time I'd been thinking I must sort
through the box and get rid of some of the stuff. I never quite got
round to it. Every time I needed a simple screwdriver, I used to curse
as I had to literally yank the box off the shelf. Once it was moving
there was no stopping it, it would start moving with a jolt towards the
edge of the shelf and then plummet over it, it was all I could do to
hang on. Even carrying the box was becoming more and more of an
effort.

The day before I killed her we'd had a fairly normal day - indifference
towards each other and not a cheery word between us. In the evening she
indulged in her usual pass time of running me down for no reason,
interspersed with equally unprovoked vindictive comments about all and
sundry. In the morning she'd moaned at me straight away about some
triviality. Then one of the kids made some fairly innocent comment, a
little daft may be and hardly made at the best time, but it was enough
to set her off on a manic tirade, with really nastily exaggerated
observations and complaints. Something in me snapped, I was seething
and resolved that this time this was it, I'd take the first
opportunity, however slim, to do something.

The next morning a heavy atmosphere dominated as we started on our
mundane routines. She was attending to the laundry. I had to get some
tools for some small job. I was reaching for the tool-box and she came
in muttering and cursing under her breath and rudely pushed in under me
to get to the washing machine. I grunted my annoyance but out of
pettiness, I wouldn't give way and so struggled to reach over her as
she bent into the machine. I think I then had a premonition, I saw it
all a half second before it happened. I gripped the handle of the box
and slowly started to shift it towards me. She half rose. Quickly I
pulled the box forward. It lurched off the shelf. Whilst it dropped I
tugged to get the direction just right. It pummelled towards the
target. She was half crouching, just beginning to straighten up. I'm
not sure if I imagined it but she seemed to give out a half
exclamation, almost a "hey, what the...". And again, did I imagine it
or was there a faint tone of recognition? In that instant something
passed between us, satisfaction on my part that she knew what was
happening and what had provoked it - she finally realised what she'd
been putting me through for all these years. Better still, she knew I
knew. Then there was a slight thud followed by almost a crunch before a
more muted, sorted of squealching sound, these horrific sounds filled
me with elation. I didn't look until I heard her gasp and sort of
collapse against my leg, I still half held the tool box, now resting on
her head, I raised it a few inches before releasing it
completely.

Two or three long seconds passed. I started to call out, hoping there
was enough hysteria in my voice to disguise the thrill I felt.
"Help, someone, quick, anyone, help!" or something banal like
that.
My eldest was first on the scene.
"Oh Dad, what have you done" but it sounded full of understanding
rather than accusation and this feeling was supported by the knowing
but sympathetic look she gave me. We always remained close but she
never again hinted at the terrible secret we shared.

Even though my state of shock was somewhat contrived, the next hours
became jumbled, I can't really remember what I said to the ambulancemen
or police but I can remember concentrating hard to suppress my absolute
joy and this wonderful feeling of freedom. As time moved on I remained
elated and took everything I could from life, from every moment, from
every opportunity but, I have to confess, that although my pleasure
remained overriding, it was forever tinged with a feeling of
self-revulsion that, whatever the circumstances, I could actually be
driven to murder my own wife. But at the same time I also proud that I
had the bravery to take such drastic action in order to be able to
enjoy the simple pleasure of living.