Killing You Slowly by R.S. Nelson

If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t advertise it to the world. I wouldn’t tell anyone—not even my mother—that I was going to do it. I wouldn’t frown at you the few times we’re in public together or tell you to keep your opinions to yourself.

​Instead, I would study you, dissecting you like an insect under a microscope. Many things change in twenty years; we certainly have. I would have to relearn you, study your habits. Like the way you take your coffee: two sugars and one scoop of cream; the way you always leave it on the counter—unattended—while you go to the bathroom. Or the way you drink other things at night, before stumbling into your bedroom, slamming the door and then crying until you fall asleep.

I would also check your medicine cabinet, to see what you’re taking these days, for those times when you can’t sleep. I could ask you, but that would only make you suspicious. “Since when you care?” you'd ask, your lips quivering, and I wouldn’t know how to reply. 

No, talking to you would be a mistake.

If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t keep a diary. Unlike you, I wouldn’t pour all my inner thoughts and feelings—too many feelings—into the pages of a leather-bound notebook. I wouldn’t write that I hate my life, that I can’t wait to leave it behind.

Instead, I would post pictures of us on Facebook—even if they’re old—with captions worthy of a Hallmark card, saying things like how lucky I am to have a woman in my life who loves me and accepts me for who I am, even if we both know that’s not true.

No, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.

I would tell you I had to go on a work trip. And on the day of my departure, I would call to you from outside until you walked out onto the porch, a question on your face. I’d yell “I love you,” and “I’ll miss you,” for all the neighbors to hear. I would blow you a kiss, ignoring your confused—and maybe hopeful—face. Then I would drive a few hours out of my way, rent a room in some roadside motel, and leave my phone in there, knowing it could be tracked. Then I’d drive back, park far away from the house and walk the rest of the way. I would find you deep in sleep, and wake you just long enough to feed you the rest of the pills. Then I would wait until your body got cold before walking back to the car, driving back to the motel, and dozing off while waiting to get the call.

When it came, I would cry an Oscar-worthy performance, and talk to the police about the pills, and the diary, reiterating that no matter how much I loved you, you never felt it was enough.

And when they asked me if I ever wanted to kill you, like it said in the diary, I would say that if I had truly wanted to kill you, I would have already done it many, many years ago.

© 2025 R.S. Nelson

About the author:
​​R.S. Nelson is a Latina writer who lives and finds inspiration in Southern California. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, SciFiSat, Every Writer, Every Day Fiction, Twin Bird Review, and elsewhere. You can find more of her stories on her website: [email protected]