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The Transformation of Hatred to Guilt

I hated her, and she hated me. There was no doubt about any of it. We had despised each other since the first day our newborn eyes opened up to this world, and we would remain that way until the last day of it all. She was a lonely widow, seeking revenge, her wiry, frail body moving with swift, evil strides, her eyes as alert and focused as her mind. She had lost her husband, and loved mine. I, of course, was wise enough never to let him discover the sight of her, for a broom of love could easily emerge through the air, sweeping both off with each other, leaving me in the remnants of the dustpan.

She had made daily visits to my home, each time secretly disguised in a hideous costume, hoping to sneak in, and lock eyes with my one and only, sucking in all of his heart with every blink she made. Once, I almost mistook her for a peasant, but then tracing the elegant cheekbones bulging out of her pale white flesh, immediately slammed the door in her selfish, wretched face. My husband soon became wary of the fact that I would almost never let him answer the door when it rang. He became so curious, in fact, that he decided to answer the door before my palms could even grasp the massive gold knob. As the maple door opened, it slowly revealed a woman, white as snow, and delicate as glass, standing tall and proud, a flowing peach dress bedecking her beauteous outer shell. My husband, of course, was so awestruck by her natural beauty that he stood there for about a minute, simply taking in with shocking admiration the figure that lay before his very own eyes. I looked down at my tattered clothes, dirty from housework, and felt my rugged face glistening with freshly oozed sweat. I looked up. He was still staring, and she was still smiling, modeling her perfectly toothed smile, a great and proud smile, one of accomplishment. She had known he was going to answer the door, and she had known to dress extravagantly. Although I did not very well know how, she had known, and what was done was done. They had seen each other, locked one another's eyes, and entered a world of heaven, leaving me in the dark pits of hell.

He invited her in, simply as any gentleman would to a beautiful lady that came knocking on his doorstep. This gesture, of course, she took as a sign of affection and shot me a malicious glare, almost as if my marriage was a little game for her. She left me in complete fury. My ears must have been near the point of steaming with anger, for my husband turned to me, a worried look filling his face. I decided to hold back the tears and the pain, saving them for a much later circumstance.

She stated that she was simply a visitor in town, looking for a place to stay for the night, something cheap and cozy. He made a remark about how funny it was that a 'woman of that wear' would be concerned with money, but she sweetly giggled away his comment, returning it with a only a flirty and desperate look. The steam started to crawl its way back up my spine, and the anger was screeching deep inside me, but again I pushed it back down for later use.

They continued their tour, and he showed her to her room, completely ignoring my existence for a good fifteen minutes. They both seemed to be lost in a love trance, and it was as though the rest of the world had suddenly disappeared from their lives, leaving them together, both awestruck. She smiling, he admiring. Her rich, snobby self, and his blind, oblivious character. It was a match made in heaven, and all who tried to interfere were bound to accept the consequences.

She aligned her suitcases in her room as she liked, and checked into the front desk as any customer would. My husband asked me if it would be all right to invite her to dine with us, but I quickly shook my head, my eyebrows fierce with jealousy. He returned my gesture with a sly look of curiosity, pondering my quickness of response. I looked around to spare the moment, only to find her gazing at the exquisite paintings that decked the front hall, completely oblivious to the fact that I had just cost her a dinner with her true love.

We dined, we drank, and we laughed. I pinched myself in between spurts of laughter just to check if it wasn't all a dream. It wasn't. Every moment, and every smile was there, but every inch of it was fake. I kept thinking about her, the other one, the competition, and I knew, with all my heart, that he was thinking about the same exact thing.

That night, I left the dinner table quite early with the excuse of finishing a page-turning book. He simply smiled and waved me away, off to my room, where hours of carefully considered masterminding were bound to occur.

He had gone out for a walk. I had everything in its proper place. The knife was sharpened to the crisp, the blade shining under the questioning light. The rope was thick and twisted, just like my jealousy. My hands were shaking, but my mind remained still and clear as ever. I had a goal, and I wasn't going to do anything else until that goal was accomplished. I opened the door of my room, crept down the dreary hallway, and found myself face to face with my enemy's door, a thick towel in one hand, the sharpened knife in the other, and the rope tight between my teeth. I made sure no one was around, ferociously turned the knob, and bolted down the door.

Her face was shocked, and her body shivered like it never had before. She breathed slowly, and told me to get a hold of myself, but I wasn't going anywhere. I was determined to get this job done and over with. Suddenly my hands became cold, and slipped, consequently piercing the knife directly into the center of her heart, sending out her selfish, nasty scream, permeating along with the freshly exposed blood that now oozed out of her body, once beauteous and alive. Her ravenous mouth hungered now for life. Once her body was completely lifeless, I dragged it across the wooden floor, and let it slip out of the window, listening for the harsh plop as it hit the ground. I quickly grabbed my towel and mopped up the maroon liquid, making sure to leave absolutely no trace that any incident had occured in that room.

My husband returned from his walk, and I told him about the body. He seemed awfully devastated and immediately contacted the police. Before they arrived, I made one last check of her room, totally reassuring myself that there was no evidence to be found. When the police arrived, they notified her relatives and close friends. I shed a few fake tears, and tried my hardest to make my eyes look as glassy as they possibly could. My husband cried. It was the first time he had ever in his whole life. Never had he cried for me. Only for her. The one he had truly cared about; the one who he had really enjoyed; the one I had killed.

Millions of thoughts suddenly erupted through my head, and the tears, real this time, came pouring down in streams of guilt and ridicule, shameful of every action I had taken that night. My husband comforted me, but it was no use. None of this would have happened had it not been for my wretched selfish mind, and my jealous, vicious ways. None of this would have happened had I not existed. I didn't deserve to live, for I ruined the chance for another to live.

Hours quickly turned to days, and days to months. The guilt seemed to increase more and more until it took over my unstable mind. She had taken me over. She had when she was alive, and continued to do so in death. Her spirit lurked within my body, just waiting to escape through my lungs for all to hear. I picked up the phone; I dialed the police but quickly hung up. I shook my head and slowly, deeply, inhaled. I rolled back my shoulders and dialed again. It rang, and an officer answered: "Please state your emergency."

"I have a confession.…"





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