He was looking at me like that again, that disappointed look that always filled me with anger. How dare he look at me like that! Mr. All High and Mighty! As if his poop is gold. I am sick of him always looking down on me.

“Tidy your room!”

“Do your washing!”

I know, I know! Give me a break, I work hard every single day to put food on the table and yet I am infantilised every chance he gets, and what does he do in return? I’ll tell you what he does, f*** all!!!

Today he really pushed my buttons, told me to wash up a weekends worth of washing up, told me to get my hands dirty for once, roll up my sleeves and scrub.

I don’t even remember pulling the knife off the draining rack, I barely remember it entering his back, but there I was standing over him, knife falling from my hand, blood dripping from my fingers. As I looked down at him wondering what to do with the body, it dawned on me.

They’re going to say it’s my fault, that I’m the bad guy because I stabbed him, they aren’t going to know everything he’s said, everything he’s done. This isn’t self defence in their eyes, it’s cold-blooded murder.

All this time I thought he was the villain, but as I watched the blood drip from my fingertips, I realised it was all a matter of perspective. He’s the victim, I’m the villain! The psycho girlfriend who did it for what? Money? Attention?

He was a son, he was a brother, spare him his soul! He was a good man and she took his life too soon!

He was no saint! He was an abuser, I can see that now, hindsight is such a funny thing, I knew what he was doing was abuse, but it’s not till he was dead at my feet it really hit home.

At least he’ll get his last wish, I’ll roll my sleeves up, I’ll start scrubbing and when I’m done it’ll look like he never existed. Failing that it’ll look like a bloody accident!