through my chest and I gave a satisfied sigh.
I had poisoned the man whom I had pretended to love for the past few months and had sometimes lived with. The man who had beaten me, given me away to his friends, cheated on me and called me a whore in other people’s company.
Now I was free to live my life as I wanted again; the freedom I got back when I killed him. I knew what I should do with my life right then and it felt a little easier to be in the world. The last three months had passed with planning the murder of Verner. Preparations had filled everything - my thoughts, my body and my heart; if I have one. There was no way back and it had become a deep and fascinating occupation.
Over the years, I have mostly done my killings early in the relationship, but part of me wondered why women stay with abusive men. Why do they not just get away from them? One of my therapists believed that we are programmed to seek what is good for us - that we often seek what we know, although it is unhealthy to achieve a distorted sense of security and predictability. Whether she was right, I was not quite sure, but I had to figure it out.
I was sick and insane to be with him. He had no right to treat me like he did and he had to pay with his life. Now it was over - the party was finished and the guests gone – it was time for the cleanup and it was a fabulous feeling. I smiled and gave a satisfied sigh. I would really rather have caused him more pain and suffering, splashing and smearing his blood and brains on his precious chairs and carpet; but you can’t always have everything, can you?
But from the subjugation and planning I had learned something I could use - the reason that women are the target. Men who would otherwise mistreat women become like little children when they’re not handing out their abuse. They are children who need not just a mother figure, but one who, in every respect, will provide for them and their needs.
Verner always said that without me he was lost; that is when he has not calling me a whore, worthless and inept. He said he could not do without me; I was the one who brought sense and meaning into an otherwise crazy world; he called me his muse. My life was suddenly given a whole new meaning; I no longer lived only for myself, but now also for Verner. You can almost get high from your importance in a relationship where you would otherwise feel insignificant. You become totally dependent on the feeling and desire to feel it again and again; it’s the sense of importance of being wanted and indispensable.
There were times when I felt like an addict when I tried to cheat Verner into giving me a sense of him needing me a lot. It was quite interesting to experience, but also sad and pathetic, bordering on the ridiculous tragicomic. In other words, an addiction like any other dependency, but this one makes women get together with men who beat them. They are junkies for the abuse.
In my mind I went through the numerous questions the Weeble had asked me and wondered if I had the answer exactly right for him. Did he really drink too much? Did I know everyone in his circle of friends? Which ones had seen us together? Did he have any enemies?
Enemies? If the definition is of someone who gets up in a bar and provokes four big strong guys so the owner has to call the police, in fear of getting all his furniture smashed, yes – it’s conceivable that Verner had some enemies. But real enemies? No, not in that sense. Well, only me but the Weeble wasn’t told about that one.
When asked about that by the Weeble I just said that I did not know of any and gave him the names of all those who Verner had been involved with, including his daughter, the cleaning lady, and a few of his equally drunken friends.
Finally, as he followed a handbook on ‘Behavior for a Compassionate Police Officer’ to the letter, Hansen had asked me if I was okay alone, or whether I needed help from someone who could be with me while I got
I had poisoned the man whom I had pretended to love for the past few months and had sometimes lived with. The man who had beaten me, given me away to his friends, cheated on me and called me a whore in other people’s company.
Now I was free to live my life as I wanted again; the freedom I got back when I killed him. I knew what I should do with my life right then and it felt a little easier to be in the world. The last three months had passed with planning the murder of Verner. Preparations had filled everything - my thoughts, my body and my heart; if I have one. There was no way back and it had become a deep and fascinating occupation.
Over the years, I have mostly done my killings early in the relationship, but part of me wondered why women stay with abusive men. Why do they not just get away from them? One of my therapists believed that we are programmed to seek what is good for us - that we often seek what we know, although it is unhealthy to achieve a distorted sense of security and predictability. Whether she was right, I was not quite sure, but I had to figure it out.
I was sick and insane to be with him. He had no right to treat me like he did and he had to pay with his life. Now it was over - the party was finished and the guests gone – it was time for the cleanup and it was a fabulous feeling. I smiled and gave a satisfied sigh. I would really rather have caused him more pain and suffering, splashing and smearing his blood and brains on his precious chairs and carpet; but you can’t always have everything, can you?
But from the subjugation and planning I had learned something I could use - the reason that women are the target. Men who would otherwise mistreat women become like little children when they’re not handing out their abuse. They are children who need not just a mother figure, but one who, in every respect, will provide for them and their needs.
Verner always said that without me he was lost; that is when he has not calling me a whore, worthless and inept. He said he could not do without me; I was the one who brought sense and meaning into an otherwise crazy world; he called me his muse. My life was suddenly given a whole new meaning; I no longer lived only for myself, but now also for Verner. You can almost get high from your importance in a relationship where you would otherwise feel insignificant. You become totally dependent on the feeling and desire to feel it again and again; it’s the sense of importance of being wanted and indispensable.
There were times when I felt like an addict when I tried to cheat Verner into giving me a sense of him needing me a lot. It was quite interesting to experience, but also sad and pathetic, bordering on the ridiculous tragicomic. In other words, an addiction like any other dependency, but this one makes women get together with men who beat them. They are junkies for the abuse.
In my mind I went through the numerous questions the Weeble had asked me and wondered if I had the answer exactly right for him. Did he really drink too much? Did I know everyone in his circle of friends? Which ones had seen us together? Did he have any enemies?
Enemies? If the definition is of someone who gets up in a bar and provokes four big strong guys so the owner has to call the police, in fear of getting all his furniture smashed, yes – it’s conceivable that Verner had some enemies. But real enemies? No, not in that sense. Well, only me but the Weeble wasn’t told about that one.
When asked about that by the Weeble I just said that I did not know of any and gave him the names of all those who Verner had been involved with, including his daughter, the cleaning lady, and a few of his equally drunken friends.
Finally, as he followed a handbook on ‘Behavior for a Compassionate Police Officer’ to the letter, Hansen had asked me if I was okay alone, or whether I needed help from someone who could be with me while I got
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