It was nighttime. I could smell her perfume. I thanked her for picking me up, a stranger on the side of the road. She didn't know it yet, but I would be the last person in her life. The last person she would talk to. The last person to see her alive.
Just recalling that night is intoxicating.
I sat in the passenger seat, waiting for that right moment. Then it happened. The detour on Highway 58 rerouted us down a semi-secluded road, not too far off the beaten path but just enough. Just enough that the people filling up their cars with gas nearby never heard the screams.
I pretended to get something from my bag. I planted my elbow across her face and knocked her out as I sat back up. I sat there in silence, looked over at her, and wondered if this was the one. I can leave her here and let her live. Or I can kill her and make her my statistic. My headline in the next day's news. When they're alive, they belong to their world. Once they die, they belong to mine. She will always be mine.
I, William Wilson, make this confession of my own free will.
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