Chapter 1
1st Kill
Hello. My name is Jessie. That’s my English name.
I am only an ordinary Chinese woman who works in a common American company located here in China. All my life, I thought my world was small, somewhat predictable, a little boring — but safe. The worst act of mine till then? Flunking a university grammar course.
And yet, tonight, everything changes. Me, I’m killing my husband tonight.
I never thought I would be standing here — right now — in our barely lit bedroom looking at the man that I swore my whole life to, the father of my five-year-old son. He’s completely and utterly wasted, crashed out in a pile facedown on the bed, snoring loudly, the now-familiar reek of whiskey intermingled with a strange woman’s perfume wafting through the air like some sort of toxic mist.
I had looked at his phone, a second phone which he had never brought back home in years, about half an hour ago. He likely just got too drunk and ended up bringing the phone home by mistake. One of the messages on its illuminated screen read, “I love you, baby. God, if only my wife would leave me alone.” He sent that to his mistress.Something inside me shattered.
My entire life, I had done everything right. I had worked full-time, never stayed out too late, and married the guy approved of by my parents. I made a thousand fine meals, tidied the house so it sparkled, took care of my child — everything. I giggled when neighbors asked how I was the “perfect wife.” I convinced myself I was happy — sometimes I even believed it.
Now, all that feels like a lie. I am consumed by nothing but a dark, lightless fury which wraps its tendrils around my chest and poisonously tightens until I no longer have air to breathe.
I cautiously fumble in the nearby storage closet, pulling a roll of crude packing rope. My hands shake unrelentingly. The cold, harsh plastic against my skin steadies me. I drop to my knees next to him, binding his hands, followed by securing his feet. He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t move a muscle, only the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.
My heart beats so loudly in my ears that I am sure the whole room can hear it.
And the man who used to be my rock, the man who destroyed me, the man who ruined my life — he is all mine.
I grab the pillow on the chair next to the bed. It is soft and warm, with the faint smell of lavender detergent — my favourite one, which I last used on those sheets just days before.
Breathe in, put the pillow over his head. He gasps, muffles it. A tiny twitch of his fingers. His legs jerked once, twice. His weight shifts on the bed, and it creaks.
My arms are not giving up, trembling, splitting from the fire of my muscles as they strain themselves, and I push harder — every single one of my nerves nothing but adrenaline and fury.
Then… nothing. Only silence.
I stop, breathing heavily, looking at the body before me on our bed that is no longer alive. I am just dry-throated, swallowing my saliva. I can’t believe I just did what I just did.
“Mommy?”
A voice comes, soft and innocent — and it cuts through me like a knife.
My son. He’s standing in the hallway, his sleepy voice barely above a whisper, rubbing his eyes. “Mommy?”
A panic claws at my chest, threatening to tear me open. I get frozen, barely able to move. My voice shakes, I force a smile on my face, the clean tears welled up in my eyes, and my hands are shaking as much as my voice. I use all my strength to walk out of the bedroom.
“Sweetheart, go back to sleep. Mommy’s… busy.”
He nods compliantly and snuggles back under his blanket, the door gently clicking shut after him.
As soon as the door is closed, once again I spin around and face the dead body.
My husband. My mistake. My monster.
What now?
The body. Oh God, the body. I couldn’t leave it here. Not like this.
I grab my son and get him inside the car for a quick trip to his grandparents’ apartment, which is only 10 minutes drive from ours. I told my mom that my husband is on a business trip, and I have to take time off to clean the apartment. My mom, who’s so happy to have her grandson with her, doesn’t question it.
Getting back into my apartment, it feels too still, the smell of sweat and death hanging in the stale air. As I stand in the vibrating noise of this gloomy room, I feel the silent pressure all around me in my bedroom. Rigor mortis has begun to set in.
I suppress a lump of acid in my throat and pull the large black suitcase out from the closet. And I compress him, my husband, the father of our child, into the suitcase while he can still be twisted. Metal teeth rattle like bones under my trembling, fumbling fingers as I try to pull the zipper shut.
My heart is racing like a drum as I drag the suitcase down into the underground garage at two in the morning. Every noise, amplified, is this demented reverberation that will surely call out my crime: the wheels whisking and rattling across the tiled ground, reminding me of what I’ve just done.
My breath catches when the lift stops on my level. I stop breathing, quivering in every nerve. But lucky… The elevator doors open on nothing. No one’s there. A wave of relief washes over me, if only for a moment.
I force the suitcase into the car boot and begin driving into the night. The light of my navigator on the phone remains glowing below me, and the city lights mesh together behind my tail. The street narrows and becomes quieter, and when I take off, a county sign is left behind — indicating how far I’d gone.
In the parking lot by the abandoned reservoir, I pop open the trunk. The suitcase seems to have doubled in weight now — or perhaps I am a lot weaker than I was five minutes ago. Sweat slicks my palms as I select several stones from the rocky shore and pack them into the suitcase to be sealed for good before snapping it shut, with a lump in my throat.
I shove the suitcase into the black water with all my power. Night swallows the splash, like the last breath before sinking beneath the shiny black water.
I drive home in a daze, heartbroken. I park my husband’s car at the luxury apartment complex where his mistress lives, and throw the keys in a garbage can outside a big shopping mall. By the time I make it to my own bed, sunrise is already shading the sky a pale gray.
I acted like nothing transpired for one entire week. Whatever people say, I still smile at the neighbors, cook for my parents, and go to work as usual. A secret burdens my chest with a weight too heavy to bear.
Until… one day, I visit the police station and tell them that my husband is missing.
I thought I was free. I wasn’t.
Wow, they were faster than I expected.
Cameras. Receipts. Tire tracks.
They do this frighteningly quickly, sort of assembling the entire picture in their minds.
I didn’t last, not even an hour into sitting in the cold, bright interrogation room under the harsh fluorescent lights.
The trial is brief and merciless. The sentence: death.
As I prepare to be strapped to the execution table in a sterile white chamber, and for the needle — my son — I will never see my son again. Now my parents won’t allow him to come visit. He should never see you this way, they say.
If only I could do it over…
The needle pierces my skin. Darkness swallows me whole.
I open my eyes. Again, I am in the bedroom.
The Asshole on the Bed, drunk and snoring, my husband.
My hands are empty. My heart hammers in disbelief.
I am back.
And now, I have all of eternity to plan the most spectacular way to kill him.
Would you pull the trigger again… if the night rewinds?
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