Idiot Monologue

She’s dead. My sister is dead, and it’s all his fault, Jason. Her fiance. I’ll just say it now, I killed him. He had no idea what was coming, all fingers pointed to him. The moment they found my sisters body, Juliet’s body, he was gone. Out of thin air, gone. I remember walking right out of the hospital, ignoring the family that had gathered outside, and left. My heels clanked on the metal grate, before the noise became simple thuds on the concrete. I must have sat in that car for ten minutes, planning it all out. I’m not mad, I am completely sane. Hatred ran through my veins, pure hatred. I drove to their cottage on West Elm, it’s secluded, perfect. He must have gone there, thinking that no one would look here. Idiot. He was so oblivious of

Yes, I was posing the murder as a suicide. Why wouldn’t they believe that? His fiance was dead, after all. He looked a mess when I found him, bloodshot eyes, hair in no specific shape, with his favorite pink sweater. He wore it all the time, it looked as though he stopped caring, the sweater was falling apart at its seams. He didn’t notice me. I printed the note and put it on the coffee table carefully, with gloves of course. Easy enough. I had him place his finger prints on the printer, the computer, the note, the chair, and the rope. He didn’t even bother asking questions. I remember the faint whisper that came out of his mouth, whispering my name, “F-Faith, is s-she de-dead?” He stuttered over nearly every word in that sentence. I never answered him, I simply told him the stand on the chair, and I tied the rope around his neck, with no remorse. I pulled the chair from under him, making it look as if he kicked it aside. I walked out of that house, humming a song. Humming. Then my phone rang, and I answered that god forsaken phone call. It had been the doctor, he told me the autopsy had been completed on Juliet. It was a