I stared down at my blood-tainted palms filled with unexplainable emotions that I had never felt before.  This seems like a tacky way to start off the first chapter of my memoir, but a teacher of mine did once tell me that I need to start off every story with a hook.

I inspected my fingers, my rings, my nails, my knuckles, and my wrists.  All of it was coated in a bright, slippery poppy-red, with only a couple of tiny cracks of my natural skin color bleeding through.  

My once solid-gold and silver rings were replenished with crimson, my long fingernails now had a beautiful arterial shade painted on them- death was truly a beautiful thing.

I never liked how people always viewed it as terrible, as a loss, as horrible- it was a new beginning.  A new stage of life, it was something to be celebrated- it should be rejoiced!

I took my fingers and slowly smeared it onto cheeks, using it as blush.  It didn’t exactly smell the best, but I didn’t mind it.  I looked to my right to find my makeup brush in my purse, and brought it to my face to blend it out.  I used my other hand to bring out my compact mirror, simply observing how delicate the brush strokes were on my face.  

It was all so calming, so rejuvenating, it almost brought a tear to my eye.

I know what you all have heard, how you all believe that I am a monster- I’ve read the newspaper, the court cases, the television- they’re all so dramatic.

I have recently been diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer.  I am 85 years old, and I have lived a long life.  The doctors have informed me that I have a couple months to live- so I might as well inform my audience the truth about their glorious muse.

I did not kill my husband.

I understand that you must be feeling a great mixture of complicated emotions, similar to how I felt in the scenario that I just described.  You may be feeling confusion, disbelief, irritance, fear- you are perfectly valid for having these emotions.  I might not be someone you would believe for stating this, I might be someone you fear due to my actions, perhaps I’m even someone you envy.  If I was in your position, I suppose I would be feeling the same.

When I was three years old, I was cast into the well-known American sitcom, “Lilly vs. Life”, starring as the main character, Lilly’s, younger sister Lindsay.  The show was a hit, and my family received one million dollars per episode.

I grew up getting cast in equally famous roles, from the superhero movie “The Golden Crow”, to the lead role in the action movie trilogy, “Jahilger’s Revenge”.  By age eighteen, I owned five sports cars, owned a 25 million dollar home in LA, and was engaged to the love of my life, Alex.

Well, “love of my life” is a bit of a hyperbole.  It was more like Alex and I seemed like a good fit.  Sure, we got along fine, we had good sex, and we definitely had chemistry in public- always holding hands, kissing, cracking jokes in interviews.  We were Hollywood’s dream couple.  In private?  We were roommates.  Nothing to it, just show-business.

After our marriage, my hunger for fame only grew.  I wanted to be immortal in my image, I wanted everyone on Earth to know my name, I wanted to be a God even after death.  My money wasn’t enough for me, every celebrity had that these days- I wanted glory.

Alex, however, was the opposite.  He was exhausted of the fame, the paparazzi, the movie deals, the constant articles- he just like me, knew that every second outside was a performance.  The only difference between us, however, was that he despised it.

The “fraudulence” as he dubbed it, the deception, it ate him up.  I could sense it every second of the day, from the little twitch in his eye, the constant finger tapping, the knee-jerking, the leaving the couch to “go on a walk” every couple of minutes- it was killing him.

Well, it did kill him.

Specifically, a bullet to the heart.

I don’t particularly know if he recognized that I could see that he seemed less stressed out, that he suddenly had a rejuvenated spirit, that he began going on trips that he had been planning for years and meeting with friends that he hadn’t seen in months- all signs that he was doing better.

That was, if you ignored the strange meetings he would have in the middle of the night.

One thing that always comes with fame is connections with people.  Most people knew about the famed story of how Angelina Jolie once hired someone to do the same, before eventually deciding not to.

Alex, however, never took his request back.

It was supposed to be when I was out of the house, at the mall with my friends.  I didn’t know what day it was going to happen, so I wasn’t exactly waiting at home for it.  What Alex didn’t suspect, however, when I left was that I forgot my phone that day and came back to get it.

When I found them, hiding behind the wall, Alex accepted his fate, shedding a single tear, simply asking them to make it quick.  The hire didn’t even notice when they were leaving that I was still there.

When I heard the back door close and lock, I walked into the room to inspect his body.

I was happy for him.  Finally he could know peace, in his own peculiar way.

As I pondered how to deal with the situation in front of me, a beautiful idea came to mind.  An idea of intelligence, fame, power, glory, and perpetuity.

When people think of the most famous individuals in history, the first that came to mind were not simply celebrities.  They would also think of the sickest, most inhumane people on earth.  They thought of the killers, the kings, the politicians- people who did gruesome, horrifying things.  They were immortal.  

I did think of other things- I could have said that I watched someone kill him, but that would just make me the sad, traumatized widow.  That was not glamorizing, that was pathetic.  That gave me no power, and it did not change my name nearly as much as this would.

This would not just change my name- it would grant me eternal life.

I sat down next to the body and placed my hands over the wound, letting it cover my hands, my arms, and my clothes.  It was like a beautiful ritual, a rebirth of my identity, my face- all of it.  I walked to the kitchen and brought out a large kitchen knife, and carefully used my  blade-sharpener to style it into a glorious and powerful weapon.  

I walked back to the body, and, using my hand and the knife, found my way to the bullet and pulled it out.  Then, after cleaning and disposing of it, I proceeded to take the knife and repeatedly stab him.  I made the death seem long, painful, gruesome, terrifying- glorious.

Afterwards, I took the knife, cleaned it, disposed of it, took a shower, and called the police.

Even now, I see mystery novels and movies based on me, theories on the internet about what happened, believers, non-believers, news articles, FOX News debates- nobody knows.

Well, here you go.

That is, if you choose to believe me.

Then again, what would I get out of lying?