Personal Narrative: My Confessions

I need to write down my confession. Not the story I told the my lawyer, the judge, the jury or even my own family. It's nothing like the embellished slander written in the headlines. No, I need to confess the truth. The real story of why I'm serving life.

How could I tell anyone the truth? They'd put me in the nuthouse. I've heard those places are worse than prison. Yet, I have to write this down. I need to get this off my chest. Maybe the warden will publish this when I die. Let them piggyback off my sorrow. I need some release. I don't care if they make money from my story. The horror of that night plagues my sleep. To this day, I don't even understand myself why I did what I did.

Everyone was shocked. How could shy little Anne Baker
I replayed all those of hurtful things he'd done. The bruises and broken bones, the split lips and cuts. The pain of looking loved ones in the eye if they ever glimpsed at the agonising evidence of a broken marriage. I hated horror films and anything gory, even tragic articles in the paper, but I found myself fantasising about killing Harry. The satisfaction of inflicting the same pain on him he'd imposed on me for all those years was thrilling.

Of course, these were just fantasies. I wasn't strong enough of a woman to carry out such an evil deed. I'd raised my children to be fair. How could I be hypocrite? Even though they were all grown up, I believed I should set a good example still. Those two harlots could have each other. By the time he arrived home that night, I'd be gone. No goodbye. No explanation. That would show him.

His fancy slut wouldn't put up with him for long when she found out who he truly was. Good luck to getting her dirtying her nails, tidying the house or cooking his dinner. I doubt she would wash his skid-marked pants. He never will find a woman like me.

A young man with red hair slicked back and a crisp suit, focused his amber eyes on me. He slinked over with a beer in his hand. A large grin engulfed his face. Confused and timid, I remained silent and waited for him to talk. Maybe I could have my own affair... I had thought to myself at the
I'm in a dark room. As my sight focuses, I realise I'm in our bedroom still. I'm standing over Harry who is face down on our bed. My hands are wet. I dart to turn on the light and a knife is in my hand. I wish to God, I hadn't turned on that light.

Harry, my Harry is covered in red. The covers cocooning him are soaked in blood.

“Harry? Harry!”

He doesn't move. I leap on top of him to shake his shoulders, but he doesn't move. I twist his head to face me, but he doesn't react. He doesn't breath.

In shock, the knife still in my hand, barefooted, I walk to the police station. I told them what I did. I mean, its not like me, but it must have been me. The DNA from the court case proved that. I murdered my Harry.

Now, I'm here for life. For life, I have these stares from other inmates, tears when my family visit. They all don't understand. Neither do I. How could I murder in my sleep?

Like I said that dream... no, nightmare taunts me. Sometimes, I wish we had the death penalty in England. At least then I could have some peace. I guess I have the rest of my life to think about this. To work out how I murdered my Harry in my