Eternally Yours

    This is a story I've been avoiding for a long time.

    I didn't know she was dead. I thought she was sleeping. How could I have known? The door was unlocked when I got there. Maybe she had forgotten to lock it. That would be easy enough to do. When I walked into the living room she was lying on the couch, tucked under a cover with her head on a pillow. Peaceful. That's how she looked. It must have been pills, or poison maybe. She might have been sleeping at first, but now she would never wake up.

    I met her at the grocery store. I was walking down the fruit aisle, trying in vain to look innocuous, picking up the various plums and oranges, apples and tangerines, squeezing them to discover if they passed the ripeness litmus test. She was over by the grapes. I caught her eye. She was beautiful. Long, golden blond hair, deep green eyes, and a nice figure to boot. Maybe if I act like I need help, maybe I can strike up a conversation, say I was looking for peaches or something. Cheesy, but it'd be a start. I turned in her direction. Well, here goes nothing.

    I sidled my buggy up next to hers.

    "Excuse me," I said softly. She turned to face me with a smile that blinded me for a few seconds. Did I mention she had pretty teeth?
 
    "Hi."

    My eyes betrayed my query.

    "You look like you need something."

    You got that right.
 
    "Yeah, um, this is kinda embarrassing, but I can't find the peaches anywhere. I'm a bit of a cottage cheese and peaches nut as it turns out. Weird, I know," I smiled that humble, self-deprecating smile of mine.
 
    "Nah, that's not weird." She laughed. "I used to eat that all the time when I was a kid. Good stuff." I'm doing better than I thought. She turned and pointed to a section further down the aisle, near the apricots. "The fresh peaches are over there, and the canned ones should be across the aisle, I think."
 
    "Great, thanks a bunch. By the way, my name is David." I reached out my hand. She shook it warmly.
 
    "Hillary. Nice to meet you." I thought about walking away at that moment, but as fate would have it, we were destined for something more.
 
    "Say, I know this is a bit spontaneous, but would you like to grab dinner sometime?"
 
    She looked thoughtful. "Well, I normally don't eat dinner with weirdos who ask me out after just meeting me in the fruit aisle of HEB, but I think in this case I can make an exception." She smiled again. She was really saying yes! I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back at my victory.
 
    "Are you free Friday, perchance?"
 
    "I'll have to check my schedule, of course." She held up her hand, pretending to hold a weekly planner. She mimed flipping it open and rifling through the pages. "Looks like I'm all free. I think you should take me to a nice restaurant, make some small talk, and then feed each other some cottage cheese and peaches afterward."
 
    "That sounds great." I smiled broadly, displaying my own perfect ivories. "Pick you up at seven?"
 
    She reached into her purse and took out a business card, writing her home address on the back and handing it to me. "That would be excellent. I look forward to seeing you then." And with that she smiled and walked away. She was gone. I took a look at the business card. She worked at the state department apparently. Secretary, the card read. What a beautiful secretary.

    A couple of days passed and then it was Friday. I drove up to the house at the address she had given me. Nice house with a well-maintained lawn; it even had a garden gnome. Cute. From the window I could tell that a light was on in the kitchen. I walked up the concrete path and rang the doorbell. Not working. Hmm, she needs to get that fixed. I knocked a couple of times, then waited. I couldn't see any movement in the house through the windows. After what seemed to be a few minutes there was still no reply. I tried the handle. Unlocked. I eased the door open and knocked again on the wood. "Hillary?" I called from the door. Silence. Maybe she's in the kitchen, I thought. As I walked toward the light I saw her lying on the sofa, covered up and looking snug. Poor thing must have fallen asleep. I know she wanted to go though, maybe I should wake her up. Besides it's not safe for her with the door unlocked. I shook her gently. "Hillary? I'm here." She wasn't waking up. This isn't right. I shook her again, more forcefully this time. Still nothing. Frantic, I checked her pulse.

    Dead.

    "Oh, God." I backed away from the couch, still stunned. "No, no, no, this can't be happening. No! This isn't right." I checked her pulse again. Deader than a doorknob. "I've gotta call the cops. I have to call them. Somebody killed her. She's dead. I just met her and somebody killed her!"

    Then it hit me. With what felt like a boulder hitting the bottom of my stomach, I realized that I was the only one there. My prints were on her clothes and body. On the doorknob and doorbell. They'll think it was me. Oh, God.

    I have to go now. I have to get out of here. I fled quickly to my car and raced home. Upon retrospect, this was not the most inconspicuous thing to do, I guess. When I got home I washed up, careful to scrub my hands thoroughly. I then burned my clothes in the fireplace and disposed of the ashes in the toilet. As I flushed I felt relief at the completion of this debacle. It wasn't though.

    Nearly a week passed and I had begun to slip back into the routine of life. I hadn't forgotten Hillary, but her death did not haunt me as it had in the first days following that day. I was nearly comfortable. But then, as it always does, my past came back to haunt me. One afternoon I was at home from work, relaxing on the couch. My door suddenly splintered into pieces as it was kicked in by a uniformed officer. In a few moments the rest of the cops were inside. They were pointing 9mm pistols at my head and screaming for me to get down on the ground; get down on the ground with my hands behind my head. I silently obeyed. I knew I had no defense, so why bother yelling protests? At my hearing, I was sentenced to life in prison without parole for the murder of Hillary Williams. I was informed that they had found my prints all over the crime scene. They had found an empty bottle of Oxycontin on the kitchen counter in my name. How this happened I had no idea.

    Almost a year later, slowly adjusting to life on the inside, I was notified that I had received a letter. I picked it up after lunch. The envelope was signed in flowery handwriting, "To David." With a stunned and bewildered look on my face, I opened the letter and began to read.

   

"Dear David, I'm sorry you had to be involved in all of this. I never knew you would be such a kind person. I am writing this because, as you know, you are innocent. I know this because I framed you. Horrible, and I'm very ashamed at even the thought. But my brother, who I love more than anyone on this earth, has gone crazy. He had an accident at his job. He was a heavy machinery operator, you see, and one day during a job, he fell and cracked his skull. Spent weeks in the hospital, almost didn't make it. But somehow, miraculously, he survived. He changed though, ever since then he's been different, a little off. I didn't pay much attention to it at first because I was so thankful he was even alive. But a month ago his personality took a drastic turn. He started being mean with everybody. This is very out of character for Jessy, he is normally a very sweet and kind person, charming even. But not now. Now he curses when he's angry. He says things that frighten me, David. He's been saying he's going to kill me. He means it too. I found a journal that he left while he was over one day, and I couldn't help but look. I saw the last entry, dated that morning. In it he said that, 'I hear her talking about me. I can't take it. I have to do something. I'll make her be quiet.' He went on to write his plan to kill me and make it look like an accident. An overdose through taking the wrong dosage. I thought about it, and the more I thought about it, the more I knew that I couldn't live with him this way any longer. So I decided to let him carry out his plan. I would even help him. I used my resources at the State Department to get the information I needed. Then, I went to the pharmacy and got my hands on your prescription by saying that I was your wife. I even made a fake I.D. to prove it. After that day, I thought about being your wife. In a different world, maybe that could have been my happy ending--falling in love with you and escaping this dismal life--but that's not the hand that fate has dealt us. I had to do it. I had to. I couldn't let my brother go to jail for the rest of his miserable life because I know he didn't mean to do what he did. So I framed you for my murder. I'm so sorry, and I wrote this letter to say that the few moments that we shared were perfect, and even though they are all I have left, they are all that I need. I could have loved you, you know? But I know that now I will never forget you. Don't ever forget me."

                                                                                                                                    Eternally Yours,
                                                                                                                                    Hillary