Murder was never something I hungered for. She was a darling girl, the type the moon would descend for, just so she could rise. Too perfect for a world as dastardly as the one in which we call home. It was for this reason, she had to die.
It was a cool autumn morning in London, as many packed their briefcases, strolled the commuter path, and settled in their offices, I polished the barrel of my 1912 Winchester. The construction of a crime is a curious thing. Immediately after it takes place the plot holes in your scheme become apparent, but never in the blueprint stage. To account for this, I decided to commit a preliminary crime; something small to illuminate the err in my ways, therefore making me a more equipped criminal in my next bout. There I was, going from a man of considerable wealth and status with a sanitary record as far as the law was concerned, to a degenerate capable of monstrous things. It was quite a rush.
The first crime, it didn’t need to be convoluted, just a mere deviation from the law to allow my mind to explore its criminal synapses. Shoplifting, thieveing a bicycle, cheating in Monopoly all crossed my mind, but the true answer couldn’t escape my mind, no matter how barbaric. In order to kill a human, I needed to kill an animal. How devastating a thought to harm an innocent animal. I had to justify it anyway I could. I ran through the rolodex of guity animals we coexist with. Who has wronged us the most? Rats, with their cunning intrusions and amplified rodent feet. Geese, their droppings littering every Sunday promenade. Or, how about the cows, the Methane expelled by way of their flatulence is trapping heat on this planet and contributing to our climate change. If I were to murder just one of them, I could be a hero. Not only that, but I would have enough steak for my I Can’t Believe It’s Not Meat, Oh It Is? Well, It’s Just So Darn Good, I Guess Just This Once Won’t Hurt, party. First I needed to purchase a cow. Going to a farm and killing their property was not something I was in the business of, one crime at a time. I went to a cow show where herds were brought in from around the countryside to be shown and sold. Marvelous beings really, they milk, they stand, they eat, and after all that they give us a delectable collection of meats. I was enamored with one cow in particular. Her name was Maribelle, a dullened depressive with a heart appetite and inquisitive disposition. She seemed like someone who wanted to be put out of her misery. I bought the old girl and off we went. In London, my home, there are no fitting locations in which to store and ultimately kill a cow. I packed up my shotgun, hitched Maribelle up to my Mercedes, outfitted her with two pairs of inline skates and off we went to the countryside. Every now and then I would pull over to give her water or a pep talk explaining how to perfect her form when going downhill. We would get to talking and our breaks would waste the hours away. She had such an interesting take on the monarchy, Russian literature, she even felt the physicians in our culture were telling their patients to avoid red meat so that they could minimize the demand in the market, buy up all of the supply, then change the narrative once they controlled the means of production. My love for her grew every second like the hairs on her hide. That night we went to a barnyard house and she mooed me like no other woman had before. That night I dreamt of the rest of my life, me, Maribelle, a little herd of our own on a farm, harmoniously living out our idyllic familial fantasy. I awoke smiling, with MAribelle by my side, in a bundle of hay. Then panic struck, we were here, a remote location, in the countryside, with no one around, this is where I had to kill the cow I loved. She roused and immediately sensed my unease. I could tell she wanted to know what was wrong, I would also surmise she already knew. Why did it have to come to this? Why must love always end in tragedy? Why is it that the only person who was able to bring new life out of Maribelle the same man that had to kill her? Maribelle looked into my eyes. With one deep stare she communicated her eulogy. She told me she never understood intimacy until she met me. How her whole life was an unavailed, cyclical search for deeper meaning set to the score of a countdown to the slaughterhouse. Destiny would never deviate, but it would give her one day of true bliss before setting down upon her. Maribelle was ready and she felt lucky that her death would come as a crime of passion from the hands of the one she loved most.
I loaded my Winchester, pumped the fore-end, gazed into my loves eyes, and threw it away. I hugged Maribelle, hugged her tightly, tighter, even tighter, she began an involuntary struggle and I hugged tighter. My spirit perished that day. I was no longer concerned with the petty squabbles that led me here. I was a changed man, one who loved deeply. For one measly day I was pure and now I have nothing but a memory that makes me more accomplished than any man that has or will ever live. I publish this letter as an admission of guilt and a tale of ecstasy. Happiness on earth exists and it will find you, but you must be prepared for its fleeting inevitability.
Humphrey Rollins
Edit:
Humphrey Rollins was given the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. Since killing Maribelle the days have been inexplicably colder than they were in the months prior to the killing of that sacred cow. Rollins has retired to Serbia to freeze to death.
