I need to write down my confession. Not the story I told the my lawyer, the judge, the jury or even my own family. It’s nothing like the embellished slander written in the headlines. No, I need to confess the truth. The real story of why I’m serving life. How could I tell anyone the truth? They’d put me in the nuthouse. I’ve heard those places are worse than prison. Yet, I have to write this down. I need to get this off my chest. Maybe the warden will publish this when I die. Let them piggyback off my sorrow. I need some release. I don’t care if they make money from my story. The horror of that night plagues my sleep.
To this day, I don’t even understand myself why I did what I did. Everyone was shocked. How could shy little Anne Baker murder her husband? My family had protested it was quite out of character. And they were right. But I did it. I suppose he had it coming. Harry was a terrible man. There’s no nice way to say this. He was a wife beater. I forgave him, however. He’d been raised with violence. He couldn’t help it. He never laid a hand on our kids though, otherwise I would have left him. It’s like the bastard saved it all for me. Maybe I should have left anyway. Things may have turned out so different for both of us.
Let’s start from the beginning, the day before all the drama started. Before all this mess. Harry was cheating on me. Il’d heard the rumors, but I never believed them. “Not my Harry! ” l’d protest every time. But then it hit me right in the face. The smooth voice of his mistress left a provocative message on our home answer machine. It’s like she wanted him to get caught. “I need you,” she’d purred down the phone in one of those educated voices. “Come see me. ” Now all of Harry’s overtime, yet lack of money made sense. Why ad I choose to be so blind? That day I followed him.
Harry parked a few streets away and then walked to a pretty house we could have only dreamed of owning with tiny evergreen trees bowing to their stained- glassed front door. Maybe we could have bought a place like hers if it weren’t for Harry’s gambling and he’d allowed me to get a proper job, instead of just cleaning our friends’ houses. I saw her face. Some posh blonde tottie that was the same age as me, but she clearly had her own personal trainer, judging her body. Maybe she had a plastic surgeon on call too, from the looks of her perky boobs. Her tailored clothes in expensive fabrics screamed designer.
They kissed and laughed before climbing into her red convertible. Some sort of expensive car Harry would drool over on car TV programmes, but could never afford. She even slipped into the driver’s seat, and he was fine with that. I felt sick. I didn’t want so see any more but I followed them, just to see where they would go. By the time they reached the five-star, upmarket and overrated hotel, my eyes were blurry. To see him kiss her and hold her hand as they walked inside, crushed my very being. I had to get out of there. I rarely touched alcohol, but today, I needed a stiff drink. I guess that’s where the real problems started.
There was a bar not too far from the hotel and I wondered if they ever came here. Looking at the place, it was probably not up to her standards. How did Harry meet a woman like her? Under normal circumstances, they would never mingle in the same circles. I ordered the cheapest beer available on tap and found a secluded corner. I didn’t want the other punters to see me cry. I had given Harry everything. I forgave all his flaws, all his demons. Every night when he came home, he was greeted with home cooked meal and a smile. Despite working long hours to pay his debts, I kept the house immaculate and washed his clothes.
I’d raised his children and hid the awful things he did from them. I hid them from everyone. They were private matters between him and I. Did he beat her, like he beat me? No, a prim and proper woman like her wouldn’t stand for such behaviour. Harry was her bit of rough, their affair most likely a product of a bored, precious housewife. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew I wanted him out of my life. Throughout the years, l’d managed to save a little in a secret ccount, just in case our kids needed money. It weren’t much, but enough to put a despot on a rented flat far away from Harry.
Our kids were all grown up now and doing much better than ourselves. By the fifth beer, my brooding thoughts took a dark turn. I replayed all those of hurtful things he’d done. The bruises and broken bones, the split lips and cuts. The pain of looking loved ones in the eye if they ever glimpsed at the agonising evidence of a broken marriage. I hated horror films and anything gory, even tragic articles in the paper, but I found myself fantasising about killing Harry. The satisfaction of inflicting the same pain on him he’d imposed on me for all those years was thrilling.
Of course, these were just fantasies. I wasn’t strong enough of a woman to carry out such an evil deed. I’d raised my children to be fair. How could I be hypocrite? Even though they were all grown up, I believed I should set a good example still. Those two harlots could have each other. By the time he arrived home that night, l’d be gone. No goodbye. No explanation. That would show him. His fancy slut wouldn’t put up with him for long when she found out who he truly was. Good luck to getting her dirtying her nails, tidying the house or cooking his dinner. I doubt she would wash his skid-marked pants.
He never will find a woman like me. A young man with red hair slicked back and a crisp suit, focused his amber eyes on me. He slinked over with a beer in his hand. A large grin engulfed his face. Confused and timid, I remained silent and waited for him to talk. Maybe I could have my own affair.. I had thought to myself at the time. He placed the cold pint on my table, condensation dripping down the glass. The smile on his face never wavered and he bend to whisper in my ear. I’ll never forget his words. “Just do it. ” “You mean leave him? ” I whispered back. It’s like he knew what I was thinking.
His eyes locked into mine and we had an understanding, a connection that is rare with a stranger. The young stud shook his head. “No, he must get what’s coming to him. Don’t let him hurt others like he hurt you. You will be doing the world a favour. ” “I… But how? ” I remember asking in a fluster. I fiddled with the sleeves of my cardigan, like I always do when I’m nervous. “You’ll know how,” the man winked. “This is for you. ” He pushed the beer towards me and with that, he left. Normally, I wouldn’t take a drink offered from someone I didn’t know, but at the time, I was in a low place.
The more I drank the beer he left, my sixth beer, the more I stewed on that beautiful stranger’s words. I would be doing the world a favour. I debated with myself how murder was wrong for a while. But yet… him and her. I refused to cry again. I stumbled to the car. I knew I shouldn’t drive, the first crime I committed that night, but to hell with it. When I returned home, Harry’s old banger was still gone. l’d hoped he’d be home by now. I wanted to have it out with him, o scream and shout and throw at him the possessions we had collected together through the years.
While driving home, I had replayed in my head what I would say to him. I had thought of some good lines, hurtful ones that would anger him. If he attacked me, I could say I killed him in self-defence. Harry kept a bottle of cheap whiskey under the sink. He had always been clear it was his and I was not allowed to touch it, but knowing this would annoy him brought a smirk to my face. The bottle was half empty, but I still poured a generous amount into a glass. Harry hadn’t come home though by the time l’d inished it and I was feeling sleepy. Our fight would have to wait until tomorrow.
Disappointed, I staggered up to bed, almost tripping on my own feet up the stairs. I threw myself onto our bed. When I looked at the empty space beside me, I wondered if they had ever come here. Had they made love in our bed? No not made love, had sex. How could she love a man like Harry? Could he fall in love with her after all the years we’d devoted to each other? Thinking about it, he wouldn’t bring her here. Our peeling wallpaper and cluttered house would be a turn off to a woman like her. How long ago had they ignite this affair? Was this the first time Harry had strayed?
Despite the images of my Harry and that whore in my head, the alcohol won and I fell asleep. That night, my last night of freedom, my head was plagued with a horrific dream. That dream still haunts me now. It visits night after night after I fall asleep looking at the slates of the bunk above me in my cell. It’s my dream, but I’m not me. I’m Harry, looming down at myself. I’m young again, with bleached blonde hair and almost pretty. We’re having sex. Loving, passionate sex. I look so happy as I bite my lip. My face morphs into his mistress’. She knocks her head back and laughs as she digs her long nails into my shoulder blades.
The pain is consuming and I feel the blood trickling down my back. My mother walk into our bedroom, her face scowled. “What mess have you got into now? ” she asks in that disapproving way she did when I was a child. My world spins and Harry is on top of me. Am I her, or me? All those neighbours and friends that warned me of Harry’s cheating flood into the room, laughing and pointing. “Meek little Anne Baker. ” “Missed her ticket, she did. ” “Wasted her life… ” “And she got fat! ” “Stupid and fat! ” “Go on scrub that floor and cook that meal… hat will make Harry stay.
Embarrassed and aware of my nakedness, I try to push Harry off me, but he’s a dead weight. I slam my fists into his chest, even swipe his nose with my knuckles. I pound his back again and again. A small dagger materialises in left hand and I gauge it deep into his spine. It feels good. I repeat this motion, over and over. “Do it! ” Everyone in the room chants. “Yes, that’s it, do it! ” I groan with pleasure. The climax I experience is nothing compared to any sexual joy. When I look up, the familiar faces surrounding me have black eyes, their faces twist into simpering monsters.
My heavy eyes flutter and my head is groggy. I’m in a dark room. As my sight focuses, I realise I’m in our bedroom still. I’m standing over Harry who is face down on our bed. My hands are wet. I dart to turn on the light and a knife is in my hand. I wish to God, I hadn’t turned on that light. Harry, my Harry is covered in red. The covers cocooning him are soaked in blood. “Harry? Harry! ” He doesn’t move. I leap on top of him to shake his shoulders, but he doesn’t move. I twist his head to face me, but he doesn’t react. He doesn’t breath. In shock, the knife still in my hand, barefooted, I walk to the police station.
I told them what I did. I mean, its not like me, but it must have been me. The DNA from the court case proved that. I murdered my Harry. Now, I’m here for life. For life, I have these stares from other inmates, tears when my family visit. They all don’t understand. Neither do I. How could I murder in my sleep? Like I said that dream… no, nightmare taunts me. Sometimes, wish we had the death penalty in England. At least then I could have some peace. I guess I have the rest of my life to think about this. To work out how I murdered my Harry in my sleep.