KILLING JOY
Since the day I was arrested, I’ve been asked a lot of questions. The most common?
What could possibly drive someone to murder their best friend?
People can’t seem to grasp it: the idea that I killed my childhood companion.
That I—quite literally—eviscerated her.
That I left her body to empty itself into the soil as she faded, slowly and in agony.
In the end, what they want to know boils down to “why,” though some poor souls get confused and ask “how” instead. Practically quivering with self-indulgent indignation, they shout, “How could you possibly do such a thing?”—a query to which I respond with a comprehensive description of the process of disembowelment. In my experience, though, such a response is usually interrupted as soon as the would-be interrogator understands what’s being described.
It’s no small amusement: to watch as the face pales, the lips purse, the eyebrows take flight. Of course, obliging woman that I am, I always remind them, “Well, you did ask ‘how,’ didn’t you?”
And let me tell you: the reactions that follow are delicious.
But I imagine that you, dear reader, may now be finding yourself in my accusers’ proverbial shoes and so I’ll throw you the proverbial bone. You ask why I killed her, and I’ll tell you. But before I do, I’d be remiss not to warn you; given that you don’t have the proper context, you may initially find my reasoning somewhat…cold.
You see, I murdered Joy because she was regrettably, unapologetically, and unforgivably boring.
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