August 28, 1998

My wife disappeared on August 28, 1998. The world doesn’t know what happened to her. But I do.

Like a good husband, I reported her missing. I answered all their questions. I waited until she was legally pronounced dead before getting rid of her junk. The world thinks I’m a good husband, but I am not.

I am not because I know what happened to my wife on August 28, 1998. I’m not sorry. For any of it.

My wife was not a good wife, you see. She saw other men and spent more time with them than she did with me. She lied to me constantly, saying they were just friends, but I know they weren’t. I know my wife didn’t deserve my affection and nobody deserved her twisted idea of love.

That is why what happened on August 28, 1998 happened. My wife brought it upon herself. I deserved better, and she deserved what she got. But, if you ask me, death might’ve been too kind.

I wanted to make it long and slow and painful, but the police find it suspicious when you keep going to the same place after your wife disappears. So I made it as long and slow and painful as I could.

I built her a coffin, a simple cast iron box. It was too nice for her, but I couldn’t have her being crushed. That would be too quick. When it was finished on the evening of August 28, 1998, I padlocked her inside. Then I buried the coffin.

I didn’t mark her grave, and I don’t visit her. I never miss her or think about her. My new wife keeps me far too busy. She’s much better than the first.

So, you see, my wife didn’t disappear on August 28, 1998. She died.

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