To fake a convincing murder, you have to have discipline. You befriend a local idiot, harvest the details of her humdrum life, and cram her with stories about your husband’s violent temper. Secretly create some money troubles: credit cards, perhaps online gambling. With the help of the unwitting, bump up your life insurance. Purchase getaway car - Craigslist. Generic. Cheap. Pay cash. You need to package yourself so that people will truly mourn your loss, and America loves pregnant women. As if it’s so hard to spread your legs. You know what’s hard? Faking a pregnancy. First, drain your toilet. Invite pregnant idiot into your home, and ply her with lemonade. Steal pregnant idiot’s urine. Voila. A pregnancy is now part of your legal medical record. Happy anniversary. Wait for your clueless husband to start his day. Off he goes. And the clock is ticking. Meticulously stage your crime scene, with just enough mistakes to raise the specter of doubt. You need to bleed. A lot. A lot a lot. A head wound kind of bleed. A crime scene kind of bleed. You need to clean poorly, like he would. Clean and bleed, bleed and clean. And leave a little something behind - a fire in july? And because you’re you, you don’t stop there. You need a diary. Minimum 300 entries on the Nick and Amy story.
I want to share my life with you, and that means today, and the future, and all of my past, if you want it. If you want me.
maenons