Hey all -- I've never written in first person and I just started this book. I'd like to get some feedback to see if I want to continue in the same manner or if I want to trash it and start over.
The last place youíd look for the devil is in church. I say thatís the first place to look. You keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Heís there and I have my eye out for him every Sunday.
Letís be honest. We all think about killing someone at some point, church goer or not. Someone makes us mad enough and we serenely imagine hitting them in the head and knocking them off, or whatever method you might chose. The only difference between the thinkers and the killers is that the killers actually follow through.
So what makes a killer take the leap from imagination to reality? What stops one person and yet pushes another to do it? Thatís a good question and one I donít quite have an answer to just yet as I canít seem to stop at just imagination. Maybe, just maybe, one day Iíll have the answer and then Iíll stop killing.
You might ask how did I take the leap from imagining to actually doing ďITĒ ? Thatís a big leap, after all I am Iím the church lady next door. Looking back Iím not quite sure. Yeah, the experts say that serial killers are creatures of great psychological deformity but I wouldnít say that about me.
Oh wait. Did I say ďserial killerĒ? No. I didnít mean serial killer. I meantÖ. Well, Iím not sure what I meant but Iím normal. Completely normal. I could be your daughterís teacher, your preacherís wife, the girl checking you out at the grocery store. Kind of scary when you look at it that way. The truth of the matter is though that none of us know what the other is thinking. Weíre all capable of deadly sins, thus the reason we all desperately need a savior.
There was no abuse growing up. I grew up in a normal small town home that went to church every single Sunday without fail. Unfortunately, they donít hand out perfect attendance awards at church, although youíd think they did from the way some people carry on about being there.
So how did I transform from small town girl next door to secretly slitting someoneís throat or bashing their head in? Well, that my friend is thanks in part to my first husband, Steve. He was my first in more ways than one.
He was a nice guy. But us gals as we get older and weíre married to a man over time, it seems as though we focus more on the things that drive us crazy to the point that weíre miserable and bitter. No wonder women become nags the longer weíre married. I just didnít want to become bitter. I didnít want to become a nag. So I murdered him. Simple as that.
In the end, it was good as the ends justified the means and opened up a door from heaven. Being a poor lonely widower, I was able to marry my husband who just so happens to be a preacher. We never could have married if Iíd still been married to Steve, even though I was miserable. So all in all, it evened out.
Ever since my first husbandís death, the killings, or the ďeventsĒ as I like to call them ,have been more about ridding this world of hypocrisy. Iím on a mission to keep the church intact and the world at face value. I say that you need to be the type of person that what you see is what you get and you need to live that way. Be a saint or a slut but donít be both or Iíll find you.
As the preacherís wife and church organist, I have the perfect opportunity to determine if youíre a saint or a slut when you walk through the church doors. I sit hidden, every single Sunday, looking out over the congregation and watch their faces during the sermon. Amazing what you can tell about a person during a fire and brimstone discourse when it touches on the sins in their lives. Some people squirm and fidget. Some people get mad. Those are the ones that I watch and pay attention to. Those are the ones that have something to hide.
Living in a small town and being the preacherís wife has its advantages too. Iím privy to the darkest secrets of the congregation. I mean, the preacher isnít supposed to tell but itís amazing how a man of the cloth can be manipulated after a good bout of passion. Too, who is ever suspect of the preacherís wife? Sheís practically a saint!
Thereís other reasons Iíve never been caught. One is always getting rid of the body when applicable. Sometimes it just needs to look like an accident. Then other times when things get out of hand and it doesnít go quite as planned you just have to figure out a smart way to get rid of the body so they never find anything. One of the biggest reasons people get caught is because the body is found! Completely dispose of the body and you wonít get caught! Itís pretty much common sense.
Oh, and another tip is donít do the same thing over and over. If you use a different method and different tools each time, then it doesnít look like the same person doing the killings. You donít want to have a pattern. If you have a pattern, then it suddenly becomes the work of a serial killer and the FBI gets called in and they bring the supper sleuths that like to play mind games and analyze everyone. You donít want that.
Another advantage to being the preacherís wife is that we move every few years. We never stay in one place for an extended period of time due to how the church runs its business. So I never really get a chance to lower the population of the latest town too much.