I dated her for almost four years. She was a wonderful girl. She treated me very well and we had a good relationship. We kept each other on our toes and made each other laugh. I loved her. I also wanted her dead.
Despite the fact that everything seemed so wonderful and nice in our relationship, it wasn’t working. We were going through the motions. We both knew it, but neither wanted to admit it. I knew that I would have to take action if this was to end. I didn’t want to be the bad guy. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want all of her friends to hate me for hurting her. Hell, I didn’t want my friends (who loved her) to hate me for hurting her. Instead of taking action — doing the right thing — and ending the relationship, I hoped she would die. It would make everything easier. I wouldn’t have to be the bad guy. We could blame God for taking her away. I could mourn the loss of my girlfriend, take some time to get over her and then start dating again. Meanwhile, I’d get to keep all my friends and maintain “nice guy” status. I might even gain a little status thanks to the sympathy vote. Not to mention the fact that I could play the “love of my life passed away prematurely” card to garner sympathy from other women. If she dies, I’m the big winner. Sure, people might be sad for a while, but they’ll get over it. Everyone does.
I waited. She didn’t die. I took her white-water rafting. She didn’t die. I took her skydiving. She didn’t die. I undercooked her chicken. She didn’t die.
I had to break up with her. Now everyone thinks I’m the bad guy.
If they only knew.