Marrying the Millionaire

  THE KILLER SAT IN THE blue recliner inside his office, glaring out the window at the trees. Thinking about what he did, his heart shattered inside his tight chest. A tear puddled in the corner of his right eye, then trickled down his bearded face. He stirred uneasily in the chair, positioned the tip of the black ink pen to the paper, and wrote.

  Dear Diary,

  I ain’t never been the type of man to write shit down inside a book. No, not ever. But the shit I done went and did has me crying myself to sleep tonight. I’m not letting the tears stream down my face, though. I’m just sitting in a recliner, writing and crying with my heart. I’m crying so hard with my heart until my chest is tightened, and cramping, and it’s sore to the point I feel like I’m having a heart attack. If I die in this recliner as I pen this letter, I deserve it.

  It’s raining cats and dogs outside right now, just as it had earlier today during Salina’s funeral. Poor Richmond and his pumpkin, Isabelle. The two of them looked so distraught and hurt. Like the world as they knew it had descended down on their heads and crashed their perfect worlds into. They didn’t deserve what I did to them. Salina didn’t either.

  Oh God, please forgive me. Please. Not only did I kill Salina, but I’m the reason my good friend Leroy Van Buren is dead. He died in that car crash because of me.

  While at Salina’s funeral, I looked across the way and spotted Leroy’s granddaughter, Kayla. It breaks my heart to know I killed not one, but two people. Both of whom I loved. I should’ve never gotten in that car with Leroy on the night I killed Salina.

  As I sit here suffering, drowning in my own grief, I’m listening to big balls of hell drop from the raining sky, then crackle against the window pane. I can hardly breathe. I feel so guilty for allowing Salina to talk me into murdering her. Gotdamnme! Now that she’s dead and sleeping in her grave at my expense, I’m fucked up inside the brain. Hurt so bad, I want to die. Why and how I let her convince me to kill her has me dying a slow death, laced with guilt. If nothing else kills me, the guilt alone will.