If you are reading this, you know that I have cut off your balls and taken the kids. I called ambulance for you, so hopefully you are in the hospital by now. There is a reason I have done this, but I feel that I should explain my actions in their entirety first, sweetie.
In the back of your mind, perhaps you are also wondering why I destroyed so many of the appliances in the house and yet I took the measures to dust your television and bowling trophies and organize your porn by publication and date. Perhaps you think it’s because I am a psycho bitch, but I assure you that everything I did before I left was deliberate. The truth is, I would never take or destroy anything that belonged to you.
I smashed the microwave on the counter, because as far as I could tell, it only existed so that you could pull my hair and call my a lazy bitch whenever I used it. With me gone, I figured you wouldn’t need it anymore.
I pulled the hinges off of my side of the bathroom mirror because I was tired of looking at my bruised and helpless face. I saw two of these faces every time I opened the medicine cabinet to get my Wellbutrin, and every time I closed the cabinet, I could see that there were two trapped women living in one body.
I took a knife to our mattress. Too many sleepless nights, sobbing and trying not to wake you up.
I took the Luther Vandross CDs. His voice was the only thing that soothed me most days. In exchange, I left you a book on coping with loss.
I ran the dishwasher, so everything, including the knife I used on you, should be clean. I put the leftover meatloaf in the fridge. Don’t worry. The food’s not drugged like your beer was.
As for your balls and my children, they always belonged to me. I just don’t think you realized it all these years. If you want them back, you’re welcome to give me back the last 12 years of my life.