All the same, murderess is a strong word to have attached to you. It has a smell to it, that word, musky and oppressive, like dead flowers in a vase. Sometimes at night I whisper it over to myself. Murderess, murderess. It rustles like a taffeta skirt across the floor. Murderer is merely brutal, it’s like a hammer, or a lump of metal.
I’d rather be a murderess than a murderer, if those were the only choices.
Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped into the next room. You can call me by my old familiar name, put no sorrow in your tone. I promise we will laugh at this difficult passing when we meet again.