I can still see her face that night, staring up at me, screaming, as I stabbed her in the heart with that wooden stake.  It all started on a cold December night. It was a rough time for my wife Jamie and I. We had no money. All we had was a shack in the middle of nowhere. The days were cold, and the nights were even colder.

I was writing a book, that I was sure was going to be sold. A few weeks went by, and my book was finally complete. I had to go out of town to find a publisher that would publish my book. I thought I would try going to New York first since it was the closest. I said my good-byes to Jamie and left for New York.

I was gone for three months, and was missing Jamie very much. I wrote her weekly telling her about my journey. In one letter I wrote her:

Dear Jamie,

I have missed you dearly, and cannot wait to see your face again. Knowing you are at home is the only thing keeping me going. Things are not going well, but do not worry. They will get better. I will see you soon.

Sincerely, George.

Days go by when I just sit and think of Jamie’s face and touch, her soft touch on my cheeks, and her deep brown hair.

I am finally going home, unsuccessful, but happy to see Jamie again. I will stop and buy some flowers for Jamie before I get home. She will be pleased to see me, as I will her. I get to the front door just about to open it when I hear Jamie talking to another man. I hear them giggling and talking. I walk in and she is kissing him! She screams “George!” and the other man runs out the door as fast as he could.

I drop the flowers on the front rug and walk into the kitchen, break off the leg of the table and walk toward Jamie. She gives a violent scream and tries to run out the door. I slam the door before she can get out and throw her to the ground. She gives out another screeching scream and I stab her in the chest with the table leg. She screams and I stab her again, and again, and yet again. The roses sit there next to her with blood all over them. I take her body and throw it down the well in our yard.

As I sit here writing other books, I can still here her voice, screaming for mercy yelling, “stop!” The anger that enraged me was so big it felt like the devil possessed me. I still have the bloody roses in a vase on my writing table.