A Murderous Trust

By: Hallea Kate P. Viray

It’s been 5 years since I last killed my ex-wife, it was a quick death. I left her body swimming in the depths of the lake
near the house of her dead-beat-drunkard of a father, nobody expected it was me due to his well-known history of
domestic abuse and my effort in covering my tracks, the police arrested him without any questions. Everyone was kind
to me. In their eyes, I looked like a grieving husband. I didn’t even find her that attractive. After a few months, I left that
town and settled in Boston with my seventh wife, Karen.

However, as time has passed I got rather bored with this family life. Now that I think about it, I think it’s time to find
myself an eighth wife.

Killing has been a drug that I can’t overcome from. The life slowly leaving their eyes, the warm sensation of their blood
slowly trickling down my skin. The thrill of killing is the only pleasure get from life. Especially taking the life of people
who entrusted me with theirs.

One early morning while drinking a cup of hot coffee and reading the local newspaper on our porch. In the upper corner
of the news section, I saw an ad. "Lake Merritt - The Jewel of Oakland California." Looking at the photo I began to
reminisce of the first life I took. The knife in my hand, and sweet sound of my mother begging for her life. It was at our
old ranch where my father went missing. The police saw him after 5 months lying on the corner of the room with a
gunshot wound from his forehead and bunch of syringe scattered on the floor. He was a drug dealer and the cops linked
my poor mother’s death to his.

As the wind gently caressed my face, I heard the door open and felt a hand rest against my shoulder. I looked back and
there she was, Karen. "You look beautiful" I uttered, "Let's go on a vacation". At first she looked confused, but after
glancing at the Ad I was pointing at she immediately squealed in excitement. She agreed and rushed back inside to make
the reservations.

It was until next week when we were about to board the plane to Oakland. We ate breakfast at our local IHOP (Her
favorite place to eat breakfast). She enjoyed her usual blueberry pancakes with a smile. Little did she know this was
going to be her last meal.

How will I execute this murder you ask? Recently, my wife was diagnosed with type one diabetes and had become
extremely ill. The reason she did not deny my suggestion of a vacation was that she wanted to escape the consistent
visits to the hospital and to also escape from the label of being ill.

During the flight, she started asking about her blood sugar. She was starting to feel a bit light headed so I took out her
glycemic reader to measure her blood sugar. Her blood sugar level was normal. But I decided to act as concerned as she
was, making our conversation loud enough for the other passengers to hear. A woman, probably on her late 30’s
decided to barge into our conversation asking me if my wife was diabetic, I said yes and she told me my wife probably
has low blood sugar. I could tell she knew what was going on, maybe she had experience with people with diabetes. I
looked at my wife and said, “Honey, I think you need to get a shot, your blood sugar seems low.” She smiled and agreed
as she patiently waited for me to get her insulin shots from our bag. The woman looked concerned, her experience
might tell her that something seems off. She quickly said stated that it might be a bad idea.
I didn’t want anything to interfere with my plan so I snapped and told her to mind her own business. She seemed
shocked and hurt with what I said, but I could care less. I gave my wife more than her usual dosage of insulin which she
didn’t noticed and soon after she passed out. I covered her with the blanket provided by the airline, clipped the strand
of her hair to her ear and I watched her as her life slowly slipped away. The same thrill was back and I never felt so alive.

Ten minutes after, I pressed the call button and with a shocked tone, I told the flight attendant that my wife wouldn’t
wake up. She checked her pulse and noticed there was none. Immediately, she rushed to make an announcement calling
for a doctor. A man, overweight and looking rather young came forward. I was certain he wasn’t confident and
inexperienced by the way he started performing the CPR. He looked like he was panicking, He was sweating heavily,
placing all his weight to poor Karen’s body, constantly pounding and crushing her ribs. I sat there watching them for 40
minutes straight. Knowing there wasn’t a slight chance of survival. I looked sad, concerned, and at the edge of a
breakdown. However deep inside, I felt power, I felt thrill, I felt joy. I was jumping with glee. The pleasure that I have
longed for is finally here.

As soon as the plane landed, she was declared dead on the airport. I took her ring before they placed her in the
ambulance as a memento of this very moment. I watched as the ambulance drove away. I was silent, emotionless while
the airport crew escorted me with concern. On the way to the lobby, I passed by the same woman who showed concern
during the flight. She stopped me and ask what happened. I remained silent as if I cannot respond. She told me that if
there is anything they could do to help, I could just ask, and she gave me her number. I stood there quietly and thanked
her. As soon as she left, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I think I’m done with murdering romantic relationships.
Perhaps, murdering close friends would be better since I have a ton. I chuckled as I dialed the number she gave me.

“Hello, it’s me, the guy in the airport. If I won’t intrude, do you mind if I invite you over for dinner? I could use a friend.”