God hates me.
Anyone who tells you God is love is full of shit. God is
full of wrath and revenge and justice, for sure justice. And I don't
claim I don't deserve His hate; I do, I surely do.
I murdered my Aunt Stella, my lonely and old maid Aunt Stella
who was this close to dying two years ago when Fannie and I let
her move in with us because she became too old and too feeble and
too damn scatterbrained to take care of herself anymore.
And you may say that sounds nice, that I'm a good nephew,
a good family man, taking care of his dying aunt so she doesn't
have to go to a home.
Bullshit, I tell you. I had her move in because I was tired
of being a loser and tired of bill collectors hounding me to death
and tired of driving piece of crap cars that cost five hundred dollars
to buy but thousands to keep on the road. I had her move in because
she had a few bucks and she had no one else to give it to and if
she went into a nursing home those few bucks would have disappeared
and I would have been a loser still when she died.
So Fannie and I insisted she moved in. We figured she'd only
hang on for like six months or so. Her doctors told her she had
to watch her diet because she was diabetic and her blood sugar was
all screwed up and her heart was weak and she was bordering on emphysema.
She was that screwed up and she had just turned eighty when she
moved in with us and that kind of scared me because really,
I wasn't that far behind at the age of fifty-five except I wasn't
even close to thinking about retiring.
I needed Aunt Stella to die so I could retire.
Six months passed and Aunt Stella still hung on; she still
hung on even when Fannie started sneaking a lot of sugar into her
A year came and went and Aunt Stella was still living with
us but she couldn't move so well and Fannie and I had to walk to
her the bathroom and I had to practically carry her up the stairs
to put her to bed at night and you might say to yourself that I
can't be all bad if I did that. Well, I'll tell you, you're wrong.
I was carrying her up the stairs one night and let me tell you,
even though she was thin and everything about her was turning to
yellow, and I do mean everythingher teeth, her skin, her hair,
her nails, she was still a bit of a load because she was tall for
a woman, especially an old woman.
So I dropped her from the top of the stairs and she rolled
like a rag doll and I thought maybe, just maybe, that that would
But it wasn't.
She broke her hip and was in the hospital for a month or
so but then she came home and she was bedridden from that point
But that was okay because every old person I ever knew died
shortly after breaking their hip. A broken hip is akin to the kiss
of death and I thought Fannie and I would be sitting pretty in no
time at all.
But another six months passed and Fannie and I had to keep
changing Stella's bed pan, we had to give her sponge baths and let
me tell you, a middle aged man isn't meant to see his old aunt naked,
no sir. Gravity does hell to an old body.
We had to bring her food in bed and Fannie used as much sugar
as she could but damn it all to hell if Stella didn't start to thrive
under our care.
So then we decided to stop caring for her. We decided to
lock her in her room and wait for her to die and no one would know
we murdered her, really. We decided to lock her in her room and
let her pee all over herself and die, and when she did finally die
we would change the sheets on her bed and throw the old ones away
before we called the police.
It seemed a sure fire thing to do, right?
We locked her in her room, leaving her with her ever present
revised King James Bible and these cheap ass headphones I had bought
her when she first moved in. I bought them for her because she used
to complain about the noise from the television and I have to have
it turned up because my years on the loading dock have been hard
on my ears.
Not even sixty and broke and half deaf and a beer gut that
damn near covers my balls; like I said, God hates me.
"I can't pray with that TV blaring all the time,"
she used to complain, so I dipped into my beer money to buy these
headphones that were supposed to shut out the world. I should've
gotten the money from Aunt Stella, but I figured I'd let her money
sit there and gather interest, you know, and it was a lot of money
she had floating out there. Something in the neighborhood of half
a million dollars, money she inherited from my grandparents and
she never had children of her own to spend it on so the money just
sat, and sat and sat save the large donations she made to that big
ass church of hers on the highway leading out of town.
"I got you these, Auntie Stella," I said one day.
She looked at the headphones kind of funny, as if they were
some sort of strange contraption.
"It's a prayer machine," I lied, for no good reason.
"I saw 'em advertised on TV. They're supposed to block out
the outside world so you can be that much closer to God."
She smiled and a tear of joy rolled down her cheek. "Thank
you," she said and her smile made the lie seem worthwhile,
So, Fannie and I locked her in her room with a latch and
padlock that I had silently screwed into place. We locked her in
one Friday as she went to bed with the headphones on her ear. She
wore them all the time as she was one for praying a lot, especially
since she couldn't make it to church anymore; she had begged Fannie
and me to take her early on when she moved in, but we always managed
to lie our way out of going.
We got the hell out of the house; I knew it would be ugly
when Aunt Stella figured out no one was going to come and get her
out of bed or bring her any food to eat. I know what you're thinking,
you're thinking a murderer wouldn't give a rat's ass about his victim's
discomfort, but let me tell you, I didn't want to hear an old lady
I just wanted her to die; I needed her to die. My hours had
been cut at the freight yard and Fannie had quit her job to take
care of Aunt Stella; after all, we thought she was gonna die soon
So we got the hell out of the house and we figured we go
to some motel up in the northern part of the state for the weekend,
some low-class place that we could spend two nights at without going
We figured two days should do it; she couldn't go without
water or food for two days, we figured, or without her medication
that we kept in the kitchen. Two days ought to do it and I hoped
she would go quickly, for her sake. I didn't hate her; I just wanted
her to die.
So we came back Sunday night after sitting in a dumpy motel
room for the weekend drinking beer and smoking cigarettes and watching
a TV equipped with only rabbit ears. We came back and our house
was really, really quiet and I half expected to see the police waiting
for us because I felt guilty, real guilty.
But there was no one at our house and the house was silent,
so very, very silent and we crept up the stairs and quietly opened
Stella's door. The moon was shining through the lone and dirty window
and its light was shining on her face.
She was lying so perfectly still with those damn headphones
stuck to her head and I thought it was over, I thought it was done,
the smell in the room told me it was done, the room smelled like
shit and piss and I thought for sure she was gone.
But I was wrong.
Fannie I both saw her chest rise and fall in a gentle rhythm.
We were disheartened but hopeful. It couldn't be long.
We locked the door again and shoved a towel underneath the
door so the smell wouldn't spread through the rest of the house.
We couldn't go out of town again because I had to be at work on
Monday and we didn't want to look to suspicious, what with nosy
neighbors and all who were probably wondering about us taking off
for the weekend to begin with.
So we went to bed and I went to work on Monday and Stella
was still alive.
A week passed and Stella was still alive, a week passed without
food or water or medication and she still was alive though her eyes
were never open; it was like she was in some sort of coma or trance.
Another week passed and we started to notice a change in
Aunt Stella, but not the sort of change you would expect. Her yellow
skin started to have a healthy glow and her nails were long but
they looked firm and not so brittle. And her unwashed hair seemed
to shine somehow, like it was healthier, like it was growing and
Another week passed without food or water and medication
and Stella looked even better and Fannie and I were starting to
panic and I knew then and there that God was keeping her alive.
Like I said, God hates me.
I figured it had to have something to do with the headphones
I gave her. I went into her room after drinking a six-pack and I
tried to pry them off of her head but I couldn't; it was like her
scalp had started to grow around the headphones and they were all
but welded to her skull.
Aunt Stella was praying herself alive.
A month passed and it was like someone had poured a bucket
of water from the fountain of youth on top of her. She still looked
like an old woman, but she sure looked a fair sight better than
she did when she first moved in.
She looked heavier too.
Another month passed and Fannie and I had given up practically.
Fannie was forging Aunt Stella's signature and using her checks
to pay our bills. We sprayed the room daily with Lysol to kill the
odor in her room because she was still shitting and pissing even
though we weren't feeding her anymore and the smell was starting
to drift through the house.
I knew we were screwed, but I started panicking after another
month when Stella's stomach started to swell; it started to swell
like she was pregnant.
That's right, pregnant.
Well, I figured it was all over by that point. I figured
something had to give because I sure as hell couldn't have a comatose
woman giving birth in a shit and piss infected room that would require
the attention of a doctor or something, not to mention TV crews
and all of that.
After all, how many women past eighty do you know that are
So I panicked and I got my old .22 pistol that I had kept
loaded underneath my mattress for something like fifteen years.
I wasn't even sure if it would still work.
I didn't tell Fannie what I planned on doing. I didn't even
think about doing anything with Stella's body after I was done.
I just wanted Aunt Stella dead, I wanted this freak of prayer out
of my house and out of my life and I really didn't care about the
I went into her room on a Tuesday morning before I was supposed
to go to work and Fannie was downstairs in our bedroom still sleeping.
I walked forcefully into that god-awful and smelly room and I put
the pistol to her temple and I said a quick prayer before I pulled
I asked God to make sure it fired.
And it did.
Stella's eyes opened as the bullet entered her brain and
it wasn't powerful enough to travel through to the other side. Blood
started running out this messy hole on the right side of her forehead
and I assumed she would die instantly.
Again, I was wrong.
Anyway, she smiled at me, that same sweet and teary-eyed
smile she gave me when I bought her those damn headphones in the
"Bless you, Frank," she said and finally, finally
her eyes closed and the room got really, really cold.
She finally died.
I knew I screwed up right then and there. I knew I screwed
up when I heard Fannie come flying up the stairs. She came in wearing
her pink and fuzzy bathrobe that had cigarette burns in the sleeves
and she looked at me and all that blood pouring onto the bare wooden
floor, blood swirling with all that piss and shit and she screamed,
she screamed and suddenly I didn't want Stella's money anymore.
I felt that guilty and you're probably wondering why I went
through all that trouble just to throw in the towel before it was
even over. Well, I'll tell you, it was Aunt Stella's last words
and I knew I couldn't escape the power of God, especially since
He hates me so much.
I went downstairs and phoned the police and I heard the sirens
off in the distance as soon as I hung up the phone.
They were full of all sorts of questions.
"Did you rape your aunt? Is that why you killed her?"
I was asked by some young kid detective down at the station.
"No," I said and I told them my pathetic story
from the beginning for what seemed like the hundredth time.
"I'm a murderer," I said, "not a rapist."
And the medical examiner confirmed that point. I'd been in
the city jail for about a week when my court-appointed lawyer came
to see me with the prosecutor and that same kid detective.
"Part of your story washes," the detective told
me with a look of shock across his face.
"Which part?" I asked and I was waiting for the
"Your aunt, the medical examiner said she died a virgin,"
and I could see him and my attorney and the prosecutor shake, just
"But she was definitely pregnant