If You're Reading This, I'm Dead

If you’re reading this, I’m dead and you will never believe who killed me – I still can’t believe who killed me.

Picture yourself at my funeral. You are standing at the graveside where my body is being slowly lowered into the ground below. At the site is my mother. She’s wailing bitterly at the death of her oldest daughter – the pride of the family. I have no idea why she’s crying; she’s the reason I’m dead. Next to her is my sister. She’s been having an affair with my husband almost as long as I’ve been married to him. At least she has the decency of not pretending to care that I’m dead.

My husband is standing by himself in one corner. Silent. Brooding. One might think he’s silenced by grief and his dry eyes are a show of how strong of a man he’s trying to be. Wife beater, cheat, scum of the earth; but a few ways I can describe the man that made an honest woman of me some three years ago. Since that dreadful April morning, I have never known peace.

Some three months into our marriage, after my head was hammered into the kitchen worktop at least fifteen times, I wrote in my journal that my husband would kill me and that if I was dead, it was him. He stands there now, having been presented with this piece of implicating evidence, brooding over what his options might be. He stands there knowing that it’s likely that he will soon rot in jail for the murder of his darling wife.

Now, let me take you back to the night of my murder.

I ran out of my house at top speed and hopped into the corolla parked outside. My husband was fast on my heels as I shut the door in his face. He punched the glass and threatened to kill me if I didn’t get out of the car. I frantically placed the key in the ignition and started the car. I made it out of the driveway in time as he threw a stone at the car.

My knuckles had gone numb from gripping the steer to hard and the adrenalin was pumping as I pulled up to my mother’s house. I banged on the door violently.

My mother looked terrified to see me standing at her door at 10 in the evening with a bloody nose and blood-shot eyes. She let me in, run a hot bath for me and tucked me into bed.

My rest was short as I heard the sound of my husband’s voice. I couldn’t believe my mother had let him into the house.

He was standing in the living room calmly when I entered. No one would believe that just 2 hours ago he had thrust me into the wall and threatened to break my neck.

“Let’s go home” he said.

“No” I replied.

Both our voices were low. He was trying so hard to hide his rage and I was trying even harder to hide my fear. My mother just stood in the corner watching us.

“I know that you’re upset. We can talk things out. Come home” he said again. He moved closer to me and I took a step back.

“No. I’m not upset. I’m not going back with you.”

“Farida, listen to your husband” my mother said.

I looked over at my mother. I was surprised but not shocked. She had been the one that introduced me to him and pushed for the marriage even when I told her that I felt something was off.

“I want a divorce” I said coolly.

Andrew found it hard to control his growing frustration at this point.

“Farida, I said let’s go” he screamed, lunging forward to grab me by the arm. I pushed him off and quickly pulled out the gun I had been hiding in my back pocket. He drew back and lifted both hands. My mother urged me frantically to put down the gun.

“I know you’ve been sleeping with my sister. How dare you. You are nothing but a liar and a cheat. All this time, you made me feel terrible whenever I spoke to someone else but the whole time you were sleeping with my sister – my own sister.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. My sister emerged from her room. I had no idea she was even home.

I hated myself so much for being weak. As I spoke those words I broke into uncontrollable tears and this gave Andrew the leeway he needed to wrestle the gun out of my hand. He took it and tossed it to the side.

For a moment I thought he was going to hit me as I beat against his chest but he let me go. He left me sitting on the floor sobbing. After several minutes of awkward silence, I spoke up.

“Get out now or I’m telling everyone about your affair and the fact that you’ve been hitting me.”

He scoffed.

“Do that and I’m telling the whole world that your precious mother is a fraudster. If I go down, I’m taking your mother with me” he replied.

“Go ahead!” I sneered. I rose to walk to the door with a fresh determination. I would walk out the door and out of the lives of these people; the people who said they loved me but had each in their own way betrayed me.

For three years I had stayed in an abusive marriage to preserve my mother’s secret. I knew that if I walked out that door, my mother would lose everything; her reputation, fortune and freedom but I didn’t care.

There was a loud bang and I saw the front of my shirt fill with red. I touched my shirt in bewilderment and examined the red that flowed onto my fingers.

I turned around to see my mother holding the gun looking at me. It was hard to tell her emotions from her face. Andrew stood behind wide-eyed. He was evil but even he had never thought of killing me. I didn’t hear it but I saw my sister scream as she fell to the ground.

I lowered myself gently onto the floor and breathed heavily.

I told you my mother was the reason I died. All this time I thought my husband would kill me but I suppose even if he had, it would have been my mother’s fault.

A few miles away, the police waited patiently for my husband to return so he could be charged with my murder.