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I was so sick of her I could hardly stand it. You’d think divorcing someone would be a great solution to never seeing or hearing from them ever again, but that’s not the way it works. At least not when a judge orders you to pay for her lifestyle even after you jump ship.

Submitted: June 20, 2017

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Submitted: June 20, 2017





Grant Fieldgrove



  I was so sick of her I could hardly stand it.  You’d think divorcing someone would be a great solution to never seeing or hearing from them ever again, but that’s not the way it works. At least not when a judge orders you to pay for her lifestyle even after you jump ship.

  Month after month I would shell out thousands of dollars just so she could live in a nice house and not work. She has a housekeeper and no job. I pay for both. She can sleep with as many guys as she wants and never have to worry about getting married again, because as long as she is single, I foot the bill.

  Where is the justice in that, I ask you?

  I was sick of it. I had had enough.

  She was always an insomniac. Sometimes she would go three days without sleeping, sometimes four. Back when we were still married I eventually talked her into seeing a doctor, see if he could prescribe her something.

  Shockingly enough, for once she actually listened to me, and she went. He prescribed her some pill that caused her to sleepwalk. One night it was so bad she got out of bed, got in her car and drove to the 24-hour market about three miles away. She shopped, paid, drove back home, crawled into bed, then had no recollection of it the next day.

  We couldn’t figure it out. We went to bed with our kitchen counter cleared and woke up with six bags of groceries sitting on it, complete with three quarts of ice cream, all turned to liquid, and all dripping onto the floor.

  We found the receipt and drove to the store where the groceries were purchased. On the security camera, at 3:09 am that same morning, there was my wife, shopping.

  Needless to say, the doctor took her right off of those pills and put her one some much stronger ones. They worked and she’s taken them every single night since then.

  Thinking about those pills is where my idea came from.

  I started researching poisons. I needed Ms. Virginia Clifton to finally realize her life was empty and meaningless and thus put an end to it. Only problem is that it’s hard to get someone to take an overdose of sleeping pills, at least without a fight. And where there is a fight, there are marks, and where there are marks, there is foul play.

  So I did my research. I needed something similar to the pills she took every night. If there was a tox scan done soon enough after her death, I needed my poison to be in the same classification of drug.

  It took a while but I finally found it. Nembutal. The hard part now would be getting my hands on it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to find it in the states so I would be packing my bags and taking a trip. I had to take my time with this, even though I knew each month I spent was more money out of my pocket and into hers. Still, better to spend money than spend the rest of my life in prison.

  Patience was key.

  I travelled down to Mexico, by car and by myself, three months ago. I knew Tijuana was too close to the border for my liking, so I drove south into Durango where I got a cheap motel and stayed holed up for a few days. On my third day I sought out a stray dog I could use. It wasn’t hard to find.

  I took the ugly mutt to the local animal hospital and told the vet I needed to have it put down.  I asked the doc how he would do it. He said there were two ways it could go down. One was a shot.  You’ll never guess what the other way was.


  I told you I did my research; I just had to be sure.

  I told the doc I would prefer the shot, to not arouse any suspicion.

  The doctor agreed and said he would be right back.

  They don’t ask a lot of questions in Mexico.

  When the doc came back, I told him I had a change of heart.

  Twenty minutes later the dog was back with his mongrel buddies and I was back in my motel.

  I waited two more nights then made my move.

  I broke the back window of the animal hospital, prepared for a screeching alarm. I was surprised when I heard absolutely nothing. I still didn’t want to take any chances, though, in case of a silent alarm. I made my way through the office and broke into the medicine cabinet where I took everything I could get my hands on. I even stole dog food, leashes, flea collars, you name it. If it fit in my bag, I took it, then I dumped everything but the Nebutal in a dumpster a few miles away, then drove back over the border and back to my Las Vegas home.

  Then I waited another two months, another two hundred and twenty thousand dollars worth of time, but if everything went according to plan, it would have been the best money I ever spent.

  On the second payday since my Mexican getaway, I told Virginia I needed to use the restroom. She agreed and down the hallway I went.

  The good thing about being married to someone for nine years is that you know an awful lot about them, for example: where they hide a spare key.

  I took the key, took a piss, left my hat on the bathroom sink, then showed myself out. I drove straight to a hardware store with a self-service key making kiosk, made a copy, then returned to Virginia’s house, saying I left my hat and I would just run and grab it. She rolled her eyes but didn’t ask questions.

  I returned the original key to its spot and showed myself out once again.

  Never once did I hear a thank you for the six-figure check I had just cut her.

  Two more weeks.

  My patience was wearing thin. Once everything falls into place, it’s hard to continue waiting, but I had to. I had to wait until the 16th; that’s the day she picks up her new bottle of pills from the pharmacy, and I was going to have to make it seem like she took the whole bottle.  My original plan was to wait one more month but I just couldn’t. I had to do it now.

  I had to do it now.

  I followed her to the drug store that day, just to make sure. I had to be thorough. Then, that night, when I knew she would be asleep, I let myself in, turned the alarm off with the code she never bothered to change, then walked into her bedroom, where I opened her mouth with my gloved hands and dropped the pill in. I went to the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it full with water before dumping most of it back into the sink. An important thing about faking a suicide with pills is that you have to remember that the victim would need a glass of water close by.

  I returned to her room, poured a small amount of water into her mouth, very slowly, to help the pill dissolve. If she didn’t swallow, I would simply try again.

  As luck would have it, the pill went down on the first try. Within minutes her organs would be shutting down.

  I grabbed her prescription bottle from her nightstand drawer and dumped all the pills into my hand, then dropped them into my pocket. I took one last glance around the room, positive I had done everything perfectly, then checked all the doors to make sure they were locked. A suicide is always more convincing when all the doors are locked from the inside.

  Then, I walked out the front door, locking the deadbolt with my key. After a quick look around, I walked off into the warm desert night.

  She was found three days later when she missed a lunch date with her best friend.  After failing to get in contact with Virginia, her friend had driven to her house to check on things. When no one answered, she used to her key, which Virginia had given her years ago, and found her dead in her bed.

  It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. I was worried about her housekeeper finding the body the next day, but it seemed fate was on my side; the housekeeper was on vacation. The body was discovered too late to do a successful toxicology exam for her sleeping pills, and under normal circumstances, the trace amounts of drugs left clinging to her dead organs would have easily been written off as her prescription sleeping pills.

  At midnight tonight, I am scheduled to die by lethal injection, unless by some miracle arrives that I am not counting on.

 My perfect plan, my absolutely foolproof, wonderfully perfect plan…well, it would have worked. It absolutely would have worked if only Virginia’s doctor hadn’t secretly changed all her sleeping pills to harmless sugar pills. She could have eaten that entire bottle with zero effect.

  You see, it seems my ex-wife had become depressed. It seems as though she realized her life was empty and meaningless, and she told her doctor she was planning on killing herself.

  If only I had a little more patience Virginia would have done the job for me.


© Copyright 2018 Grant Fieldgrove. All rights reserved.

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