Unrepentant

Sit, detective.

I’m not going to fight you.

Shall we start from the beginning?

In the years leading up to that night, I spent much of my time lurking in the background of her favorite haunts. She’d pretended not to see me, but I caught the avoidant glances. She learned to look for me in each new room she entered but didn’t leave even when she'd taken note of my presence. There were times I thought to give up, to leave her to her ways but truthfully, I couldn't walk away. I loathed yet leaned into the trappings of predatory youth, into the allure of fishnet stockings stretched over Rubenesque thighs and peeling lips smeared with black and stained with wine. She caved, cat in heat, arching her back to the demands of her carefully crafted personality. She’d turned delusion into an art form. It was almost admirable.

I had a slew of elaborate plans. A thousand ways to end the suffering of the beastess of burden. Then one night, I caught her walking alone. I struck up conversation. She hesitated for a moment, then greeted me with a small, naïve smile. She complimented my appearance- Those boots with that dress-soft, but unapologetic. I wish my curls were like yours. I returned the favor- Did you cut that shirt yourself? I used to love that band. How long have you had dreadlocks? We talked for an hour. In that time, I came to know her more than I believe she knew herself.

As we strolled through the burgeoning moonlight, I lured her into the shielded depths of a nearby forest, mulling over the moments that would be her last. And wouldn’t you know- all it took was a few cold words spoken into the darkness of a broken, vulnerable moment. I watched with patient fascination as she spiraled into the rabbit hole, screaming and crying as she fled from invisible monsters hidden within the shuttered moonlight. She ran wildly through the brush, no direction, no purpose. Sweeping trees dripping thick with Spanish Moss tossed her between their branches and threw her further into descent. Finally, a persistent root caught the broken soles of her worn out sneakers and brought her neck onto a slab of granite jutting from the mountainside foliage. While it may have been my focused flick that coaxed the first domino to fall, she truly couldn't blame anyone other than herself.

I dragged her body through the trees until I met the edge of the Reedy. For a moment, I considered tossing her corpse into the water. It was the final stage of at least half of my original plans. But such a disposal began to seem callous and brutish. This was not an act of anger. It was an act of mercy. I didn’t mourn her. But I didn't hate her either. I kicked the heel of my boot into the earth and found it to be surprisingly malleable. I grabbed a sturdy branch and hacked away at the grass until I’d dug a hole deep enough to conceal her remains. The delicate features of my dress snagged on the roots and rocks and though I’ve been to the best cleaners in the city, none can seem to scrub the garment of its stains. In hindsight, floor length lace wasn’t the best attire for the occasion. But there was no excuse to be slovenly. It was still a funeral, after all.

While leaving the scene, I discovered her satchel lying on the forest floor. As I rifled through its contents, I found an old notebook nestled in the very bottom of the bag. Most of the papers were ripped from the spine and left behind frayed yellowed scraps within the metal rings. On the remaining pages, the indentations of heavy-handed ballpoint left a trail of somber clues- fractured lines of sorrowful pensiveness and almost-there epiphanies, a desperate search for meaning in the depths of a vapid, useless void. I returned to her gravesite and buried the notebook beside her. I threw the remnants of the bag into the river.

Her absence was noticed. Quickly. I tried to take her place to subvert suspicion. I catered to the strangers she once called friends, and interwove gentle diplomacy into our conversations, hoping to redirect their sharp focus. But I was clearly not the same girl they'd come to know, and soon the whispers began, thwarting my efforts. I never thought myself to be a villain, and she rejected the idea of victimhood. Regardless of what I know to be true, I’ve been hurled upon the stage, rotting fruit thrown at my feet. I'm prodded with questions about the life I’ve taken and the life I’ve made, but no one cares for my answers.

In a different time, we could have been much closer, our outlook better aligned. She’d be more successful, perhaps a president or CEO. She’d have gone to a university, have a framed degree in an office somewhere. With a little luck and the proper medication, she’d find her name- her real name- on a list in a prestigious magazine. But with the path she was on, she’d have been lucky to be the least weatherworn cougar sitting pretty on a barstool at the local dive. The bartenders would know her by name and her cocktail of choice-"whiskey ginger, no ice with a lime"- would be waiting at her usual spot. It wouldn’t last long. They never did.

Instead, she lies in a sunken grave, maggots wriggling atop the dripping, bloated tissues, stripping her to the purest version of herself. She is no longer a slave to fleeting whimsy or reckless persistence. A garden has grown from her decay, one more lush and forgiving than any I’ve thought to plant before, and yet, she is marked as martyr to those who deny the forcing of my hand.

I sense your expectation, detective. But I'll sing no songs of remorse.

I did what no one else could have done.

She's buried beneath the willow tree.