ateolf | "Life Is Funny, Really"

I guess it's just the way things always turn out, like how my husband confessed to me one night that he was the one that raped my mother some years back. I didn't know how to react at first, with something like that you just can't react, really. The man you've loved and started raising your children with, who you'd do anything for and know would do anything for you and the man who raped your mother are not two associations that fit together very well. At first I thought we could work it out. I know he was sorry and everything I had known about that man up to that point was just near-perfect, and for a while, life at home went on as normal. It was still the same tender kisses before he left for work, the same saturdays at the park with the kids, the same "I love you"s several times a day, the same nights of great sex in the bed we'd spent all these years in together. . . but after a while the fact began to sink into my head.
Slowly.
He always maintained that he wasn't the one that beat her to death with a tire iron afterwards. That was his friend Randy, who had, up to that point, just been watching, jacking off. But he still got angry whenever I told him I didn't want that man in our house watching the game on sundays. "He's sorry too! I don't see how you can keep on loving me if you can't even forgive him! Fuck it! How can I trust you if you can't even trust me!?"
It started out as an office bet--a fairly large-sized pool for something so illegal. A good number of guys in his department ended up raping elderly women. He said something about being young and needing the promotion. But he was curious and had followed up on her family during the aftermath. That's when he met me and fell in love. Our working out at the same gym was no coincidence.
But the full impact eventually did come and I just couldn't take it anymore. At night I could feel my mother's blood on his cock, clawing at my insides. Even our children were a fucking lie. I couldn't look at them anymore without wanting to puke. I just had to leave, so I did. One day I just left, nothing else.
It didn't take long to see my situation was completely fucked. I was in a strange city, no friends, no home, no job. . . At least it was a small town with hardly any crime to speak of, but it was still fucked and going back home would've been far worse.
It seemd like a plausible option at the time, though hindsight leaves me a bit curious as to just what kind of state my reasoning was in at that point. Maybe it came about from some sort of twisted boredom, but for whatever reason, I had to kill someone--random: just as my mother had been so many years ago. A trial might've gotten me off with insanity or some type of mental condition brought on by all the shit I had been through, but there's not enough time to explain these sorts of things when the sheriff finds you on his back porch stabbing his best friend in the throat with a steak-knife. And I know that it's wrong now--probably the worst thing I could have done, but that doesn't help you too much when you're a corpse with five holes too many in her torso and head.
I guess it's for the best that I'm not alive, though. If I were, I'd just be spending all my time wondering which I regretted more: the murder or the marriage.