the act of murder

 She takes out the photos as she always does, quietly and cautiously. I'm always avoidant of her during this passage of the day I want her to be able to do it on her terms. So usually I go out while she prepares the cake and the wafers, there's not much else in the house and she can't leave. It's not that she isn't allowed to or that she's agoraphobic. I think she's most likely programmed not to. But I don't know.

I go and buy her a drink because she will ask for it. She likes Mountain Dew. She told me it was her favourite and I abide by it. It's the only thing I can get her with the money in my wallet. Sometimes I steal and get her wine. She makes silly faces and says she hates it; we end up finishing the bottle and lying up in each other's arms any way. That makes it tough for the nights. I don't hear them when they come in but it's at 02.47AM they make their stilly entrance. If I leave the lights on, they come through the other entrances. Once I blocked them, so they smoked us out and shot her in front of me. The two weasels perpetually run with their backs arched and their guns straight out of their asses. Before I shoot them down myself. I'm Eric: a hired gun and I think I'm in hell.

I've been here for 140 years. I don't remember dying, although even if I were alive my physical body must be dust of the Earth. Two days is the same for me. My birthday, the night of her death; they clean her up in the morning and I'm killing someone the next evening. I can't stop it from happening.

I usually leave at nights. At least for the past 20 years, I haven't been at home at night. I can't see it happening; I can't stop it from happening. She will die, but at least tomorrow she'll be mine again.