Confession Is Good For The Soul ( Final Part)

There has been a change of plans since I had placed the call to 911. It would take them a good 40 minutes to make it here. I had lots to do. I made a few “Discoveries” if you will. Shortly after I placed the call to 911, I ran downstairs to look for the red foam that I had seen prior to the butchering of my wife. I could not find any of the foam I had previously seen. I preceded to go outside and around the back of the house to grab a few things from the tool shed, and loaded all the stuff I had needed into a wooden potato crate I had found around the back of the house that I used to keep my garden tools in. I got what I needed and preceded back into the house and went into the kitchen to grab a piece of paper and a pen to jot down the note I needed to write. I got the electrical tape out of the crate I brought from the tool shed, ripped 2 small pieces off and went back to the front door and hung the note up on the outside of it. Then I turned around, and up the stairs I went, back to the crime scene. I had little time to do what I needed to do.

As I sit here at the desk, writing this confession, I realize that my mother was right all along. There is something wrong with me. I don’t really know for sure what’s wrong, though. I do know I have blood all over my clothes and my hands. And I know that those hand prints on that axe lying on the floor match my hands. Did I kill my wife? Did I kill Martha? Did I kill my dog when I was 10? I believe so. What about the creature. The creature is a reflection of the creature living inside of me. Have I been touched by the devil? I don’t know. One thing I do know is that I cannot live with myself consciously knowing what I have done to my wife and others. I hear the police sirens coming up to the house now. The things that I had gotten out of the tool shed are simply put. A clamp vice, which I have attached to this here very desk I am writing this confession on, some electrical tape, which I stated before, some fishing line off my dad’s old fishing pole, and a .38 caliber pistol, which was also something my dad left behind when he died. The plan is simple. I cannot bring myself to pull the trigger of a gun I am holding to my own temple. I have situated the stock of the gun into the vice that is clamped to this desk I’m sitting at. I have tied the fishing line from the inside door handle, over to the trigger of the gun. I will have my face fixated right in front of the barrel when the police open the bedroom door. The note that I put on the front door was written by me, simply put: My wife is dead. I could no longer stand to be here so I went for a walk. The crime occurred in the master bedroom, top of the stairs, to the left.

All that is left to do now is wait.

“Police Department! Anybody here? Our weapons are drawn!”

I can now hear them descending the stairs. This is it for me. Please know I did not do this self willingly. I loved her. God forgi________________