I know what you did.

I know where you hid her.

You crept into her room, pressed the pillow on her face. She thrashed and screamed then suddenly stopped. I stood in the doorway, watching as you killed the one thing I loved. You then defiled her beauty.

Mutilated her.

Chopped off her limbs, put her organs into bags. You drowned her beautiful, clean skin in bleach. Then you shoved her under the floor planks like the brute you are. The murder wasn’t even original. You took this from Edgar Allen Poe. You stole this perfectly gruesome murder from The Tell Tale Heart. But there’s one thing you did that he didn’t do. You took her perfect blood and put it in the walls. You drained her veins of sustenance and put it 

In.

The.

WALLS.

I don’t know how you did it but you did and now she speaks to me. She whispers in my ears of the injustice you did to her. She dances mournfully into my dreams, screaming of the pain she’s in. And I can smell her. I can smell her blood. I can smell it fester underneath the wall paper, like rotting flesh. And sometimes I see it. Sometimes I can see the rich, crimson liquid seeping through the walls like sweat caused by guilt from a human pore. These walls are alive. Alive with her ghost, her vengeance, her pain. 

And you are reckless. You are stupid and reckless and you think you are immortal. You think you cannot be harmed. And so you invited our friends over. Because you knew they wouldn’t notice. You knew that I would have to sit and grin and bear it and feel the weight of your sin push me down into the floor. And I hate you. For you have damned me. My once pure eyes witness your misdeed and now it is as if you have grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me down to the depths of hell. But I can’t think of this now. Because Ali wants me to pass the gravy. And so I do. But she is still in my mind. And her blood is still in. the. WALLS. And I can smell the iron of it and the rotting stench is floating up from it. But I cannot say anything. And my heart pounds within the confines of my chest and her whispers brush against my ears. And she pleads to me, “Free me, my dear, my love, oh please, he has destroyed me and you can help me, oh please. . .”

Her voice is soft and sweet yet full of mourning. Over her own death, her sudden loss of her own life. And I love her so, but you are so close and our friends are so close so I keep my mouth shut and push my thoughts of her away. The wind is playing tricks on me, I lie to myself. I lie and I know that I lie because the night is still. Still and quiet and stifled by your transgression and my forceful fall from grace. My shove off of the peak of heaven and crash upon the rotting, bloody body of my sweet. My love. Her. Eloise. My guest’s oblivious laughter becomes muffled by her pained, begging whispers. I tremble and push food around in my plate. I’m so sorry, I say in my mind, knowing that she’s there. I’m so sorry-

IF YOU WERE SORRY YOU WOULD REVEAL HIM AND REVEL IN HIS DEMISE BUT YOU ARE A COWARD AND A LIAR AND YOU’D RATHER BE CONTENT, LIVING ON MY GRAVE RATHER THAN REVEAL HIS MISDEED, HIS MURDER, WHAT HE DID TO ME, she screams in my head. Her cries ring in my ears and bang around in my skull. The walls start to sweat her blood. Panic rises in my chest and drowns my lungs but my friends don’t notice. You don’t notice. How do they not notice? How can they not notice? The blood pools in the floor and rises up to my ankles. My knees, my hips, my ribs. It’s spilling into our dinner plates, soaking into the bread, and staining our napkin but they do not notice. It’s thick and sticky on my skin. But now it’s reaching my neck and my Eloise is still screaming of her bloody murder and my friends do not notice and you do not notice but the blood is filling my mouth and my lungs and I need it to get out. I cannot drown in this. I cannot die like this. I start to cough up the blood before the pooling liquid goes over my head and with the blood I cough up words- “IT’S HIM! HE DID IT! HE KILLED HER! HE KILLED MY ELOISE! HE KILLED HER HE KILLED HER AND SHE’S UNDER THE FLOOR! SHE’S BENEATH MY FEET! HE’S A MONSTER AND HE KILLED HER!” I shriek with all my might. Eloise stops screaming. The blood seeps back into the floor. My chest heaves and tears pour down my face with relief. My friends stop laughing. You stop talking. You stand up. I stand up. You walk toward me. I walk backwards. My back hits the wall. You keep walking. I feel frozen. Stuck. And you will kill me with your bare hands. “Eloise. . . my love, I need a knife,” I say softly. And with that, strength and temporary warmth is regained into my fingers. With this newfound bravery I grab a knife off the dinner table and dig it into your stomach. You grunt; not surprised but not content. I twist the knife in your stomach before pulling it out and slashing your neck. You finally cry out and fall to your knees. Your blood pools beneath you and at my feet. You can see it. My friends can see it. And finally my burden has been lifted. I am content. Happy even. In prison, in death, I’m happy.