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I was twenty when I first murdered someone.
I called QVC. Not to buy anything, not to ask about the non-stick pans they were selling in four easy payments of $16.99. No—I called to confess.
The TV glowed, volume low, my husband snoring in the next room. My blood-stained hand clutched the phone receiver.
The host and their co-host stared into the camera,right at me, as their smiles stretched, like fishing hooks pulling at the corners of their mouths.
One of them said hello. My breath filled the silence. On air. Waiting.
Their eyes burned into mine, like they could see the blood spattered on my face, the bits of brain matter tangled in my hair.
Again, the host said hello. My breaths grew heavier.
They’re staring.
They already know.
