I am a mother. Or I was a mother, I do not know anymore.
It started one June night when I woke up and saw my husband standing at the foot of the bed.
“Honey,” I asked, “Why are you up?”
He did not respond.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “It will be alright.”
The next day I drove Wendy to school. Then I got groceries, waited for them to get home, made dinner. It was all normal. But in the night, my husband was up again, just standing there. I looked at the clock, it was 4 am. The Devil’s hour.
The next day, when I picked Wendy up, she told me about a recital coming up. I was moderately excited. I thought about the hard work ahead.
I woke up at 4 am again and my husband was not in bed, and he was not in the bedroom at all. I got up and saw a dim light ahead. I climbed down the stairs.
The source of the light was not visible to me. My husband was standing over Wendy, stabbing her. Blood was splashing up all the way to the ceiling.
“Jeremy,” I shouted, “What are you doing?”
“It’s going to be alright,” he said, “Go back to bed.”
The next day, I drove Wendy to school, except I knew it was not my daughter anymore. Then I picked her up from practice, it was still not her. I pretended everything was alright.
That night, my husband killed her again. In the morning, she was back. I hid my shock, feeling more and more appalled. By the time the of the recital, Jeremy had killed Wendy countless times. She was beginning to show signs of being too watered down. Her music was almost inaudible.