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If I had meant to kill her, I wouldn't have blood over my hands. I would have used a sharper blade, and I wouldn't be this nervous. As of right now, I can barely function. My wife is dead. It was a spur of the moment thing. She came home from work, tired, late- and I had given her the attention she deserved. I sat her down, cooked dinner, and even gave her a foot rub to ensure that she was the most comfortable being in the world. But it wasn't enough. She demanded I do more. The house wasn't clean enough, and apparently it was my fault. Did she forget I was working too? Did she forget that my life doesn't just revolve around hers? It wasn't as if I hadn't done anything. The dishes were clean, the house was only a notch away from being spotless... What did she want from me? What could she possibly be angry about now? Lately, we had been fighting a lot more than a normal couple should. We had been married for years, the kind of marriage that if you came out of it now you would be too old to be anything but a divorced, crippled human being, with nothing left of your salary to give even a homeless man. Our arguments never got physical. But she threatened me a lot. And with the threat of violence over my head, I did what she wanted. I told her what she wanted to hear, told her I loved her even though the passion had died months ago, and had even tried to give her a baby. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't. Enough. It was 11pm when it happened. I don't know what came over me. I was making her a snack, like I usually do before we go to bed, and I just thought...I could stop it. I could make her stop. I could end it all. And then, finally, it would all be over. I could be free from her fucking prison of a house. I brought what she wanted to the bedroom. She was grateful, so grateful, that I almost felt like dropping the butter knife in my hands. But then it started again. It wasn't made to her standard, the food was getting cold, the tea wasn't sweet enough- and then I did it. I killed her. But, I didn't mean to. The knife was just lodged into her throat the next minute I looked, and the tears were rolling down my face because there was a dead body in my bedroom and I had caused it! And I loved her, goddamn it, I did! ...But she didn't love me. Not enough. I guess I did mean it after all.
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