He poisoned her drink. He tampered with her brakes. He hit her with a car. He hit her with a candlestick. He loaded her up with pills and pushed her off a boat. He loaded her up with pills and left her in the bed. He lashed her to a chair, set a house fire, and let the smoke thicken. He electrocuted her with a toaster he had rewired. He hired a hit man. He delivered a sharp punch to the chest, calling out “commotio cordis” as he did so. He steeled himself for the long game, lamenting the meaningless of life in a series of texts and leaving hints around the house about how the end might come. He strangled, shot, suffocated, stabbed. Each time—every time—his heart went out to her, in devotion, in sorrow, in love.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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