I killed him.
I caught him unawares and hit him over the head with the back of a shovel. Then I buried him in the back garden. He cramped my style. I needed to be free, and there was no freedom if he was always there holding me back. He had to go.
I hated him: his stupid face, his pathetic voice, his putrid breath, his unfunny jokes. I no longer wanted to feel his sweaty arms around me when I was sleeping, or the hands that were forever grabbing at bits of me. He had to go.
Though now he’s gone and slowly decomposing under the lilies, I sometimes see him standing behind me when I look in the mirror, or catch the sound of his voice when I’m waking. At night I swear I hear his heavy footsteps walking around the house and tapping at the windows and doors. I hide in my room under the blankets. Maybe he wasn’t so easy to get rid of…
Just a dark thought that hit me last night…
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