I loved her. I thought she was mine—body, heart, soul. But the truth? The truth tore me apart piece by piece, until there was almost nothing left.
It started with whispers — late-night silences where I could feel her pulling away. Then came the secrets. The deleted texts she refused to show me, the hidden messages on her phone.
I begged myself not to look. But I had to know. Because something in my gut told me the woman I loved was slipping through my fingers.
When I finally read those messages, I felt like I was drowning in acid. Men asking things no man should ask of the woman I loved. One asked, “When I finish, where should I finish?”
Her answer? “In me, because I don’t like the taste of cum.”
The words echoed in my mind, raw and disgusting.
I couldn’t believe it. She was telling strangers she preferred them inside her, that she didn’t care enough to hide it, didn’t care enough to respect what we had.
I remember the sick feeling in my stomach — like bile rising, my throat closing.
It wasn’t just cheating. It was prostitution of her body, her soul.
The woman I had dreamed of, the one I had trusted with everything, was selling herself for cheap thrills and empty lies.
And then came the day I found her — in bed with another man.
The room spun. My heart shattered.
She looked at me with hollow eyes, as if I was some ghost haunting her.
How could the woman who promised me forever look at me like I was nothing?
But the nightmare didn’t end there.
I watched her spiral into meth — giving away her dignity to feed a hunger that had nothing to do with love.
I watched as the woman I loved became a shell, chasing highs that destroyed everything we had.
And she wasn’t alone.
Her friend — someone I thought I could trust — stabbed me in the back.
Together, they laughed while my world fell apart.
And when I finally gathered the strength to leave — to break free from the poison — she showed her darkest face.
She didn’t face me herself.
No.
She sent others to do her dirty work.
Men she had traded pieces of herself with.
Cowards.
I was attacked — not just emotionally, but physically.
My life was on the line.
And all because she couldn’t own her choices.
Because she was too scared to face the consequences.
I stayed through all the pain, all the lies.
I forgave when I shouldn’t have.
I tried when there was nothing left to try for.
But eventually, love turned to pain.
Trust turned to betrayal.
And hope turned to despair.
So, Velda, no.
Your betrayal wasn’t just cheating.
It was everything — the messages, the lies, the drugs, the friends turned foes, the violence.
You destroyed me.
And I am left here, picking up the pieces of a man who loved too much, trusted too deeply, and was broken beyond repair.
I knew what I was doing.
Every time I picked up my phone, every time I replied to those messages, I knew.
It started as attention. Just a little hit of dopamine. A man calling me sexy, someone telling me I was wanted — even if only for a moment. I told myself it was harmless. Just talking. Just flirting. Dean didn’t need to know. He wouldn’t understand.
But the truth was, I didn’t want him to understand. I was already gone.
I was bored. Restless. Angry at the world and at myself. And the drugs… they made everything easier to ignore. I needed them — not for the high, but for the escape.
Dean was there, always. Loyal. Steady. Too steady. He made me feel small sometimes, not because he tried to — but because I knew I could never live up to the love he gave. And deep down, I hated that. I hated being reminded of how broken I really was.
So I punished him for loving me.
I told myself the men didn’t matter. That I was just using them like they were using me.
But it mattered. Every message, every late-night text dripping with filth.
“Where should I finish?”
“In me,” I typed. “I don’t like the taste.”
I hit send without flinching. Dean would never say things like that. He was too respectful. Too kind. Too real. And I wasn’t ready for real. I wanted the thrill of being used — because I already felt used up inside.
Eventually, the messages weren’t enough. I started meeting them. One by one. Sometimes two. A woman too. My “friend.”
She told me Dean was controlling. That I deserved better. She handed me meth and told me it would make me forget everything.
She was right — for a while.
I sold myself. Sometimes for money. Sometimes for drugs. Sometimes just to feel something again.
And when Dean found me — caught me — I didn’t even cry. I just stared at him. I watched the life drain from his face, and I didn’t care. I was too far gone.
But then came the fear.
Because Dean still had the truth. And the truth is dangerous when it belongs to someone who’s been burned.
I didn’t want people to know what I did. I didn’t want to be the villain in everyone’s story. So I crafted a new narrative — one where I was the victim. The broken woman. The fragile wife with a troubled past and a tragic love story.
But I couldn’t play the widow if Dean was still alive.
So I started whispering in ears. Quiet suggestions. Planting seeds in men who wanted me enough to do anything. All I had to do was cry and say I was scared. That Dean hurt me. That I needed protection.
They believed me.
I let others carry out the dirty work — because I was too much of a coward to do it myself.
I watched them hurt him. I watched him fall.
And still, a part of me waited for the applause.
For people to comfort me. Pity me. Call me strong.
But no matter how many lies I told, no matter how many times I played the part, I knew the truth:
I tried to kill a man who loved me — just to escape the truth of what I had become.
A liar. A manipulator. A cheater. A user. A coward.
Not a victim. Not a martyr.
Just a girl who destroyed the only person who ever truly loved her…
because she didn’t love herself enough to believe she deserved him.
What I did wasn’t murder. Not really.
I didn’t hold a knife. I didn’t pull a trigger.
I just... set the stage.
I planted the story.
I cried in the right arms. I told the right men what they needed to hear.
I said things like:
“He scares me.”
“He holds me back.”
“I just want to be free.”
And they listened.
Because they wanted to believe they were saving me.
Saving the fragile girl who “couldn’t leave.”
But I could’ve left. I didn’t.
Because leaving wasn’t enough.
I needed him to hurt like I did.
I needed Dean to feel what it was like to be nothing.
Like I had felt my whole life.
So I told myself: he’d survive. He always survives. He’s strong like that.
I needed him gone, but not dead... not really.
Just ruined.
And if they had actually done it—if they had killed him?
Then I would’ve cried.
I would’ve gone live on Facebook.
I would’ve said, “He was troubled... but I loved him.”
And they would’ve believed me. They always do.
Because I can cry on command.
Because I know how to tilt my head just right, wipe a tear, and say “He wasn’t perfect, but he was mine.”
I never thought he’d walk back through that door.
Bruised. Alive. Eyes full of knowing.
But he did.
And for the first time, I saw it—
The fear in my reflection.
Because he knew everything.
I didn’t say a word when she spoke.
I listened.
I listened to a woman calmly describe how she spun a web around my neck.
No tears. No apology.
Just a flat, empty stare and a voice like cold metal scraping bone.
She called it survival.
I call it conspiracy to commit murder.
She said, “I just wanted to be free.”
I gave her freedom.
I gave her love that never asked for payment.
I stayed when she was unbearable.
I forgave what I should have walked away from.
I held her while she shook in withdrawal.
I fed her when she spent everything on meth and lies.
And she thanked me by plotting my funeral.
You don’t come back from that.
You don’t heal from knowing someone laid awake next to you at night, planning your erasure — not just your heart, not just your future — your existence.
She says she didn’t kill me.
But she did.
Just not with a knife.
She used her body. Her voice. Her crocodile tears.
She let men take pieces of her, and then let them take aim at me.
She is the kind of cold that lives in shadows.
The kind of dark that doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t flinch.
The kind that smiles while you bleed.
I walked away alive.
But the man who loved her died the moment I realized:
She didn’t want to be loved.
She wanted to destroy the one who did.
The courtroom was silent.
Not the kind of silence that brings peace —
The kind that strangles.
Velda sat on the witness stand. Her wrists trembled slightly, but her eyes didn’t flinch.
Not because she was brave — but because she had finally run out of lies.
The prosecutor nodded.
“You may speak.”
She cleared her throat and leaned into the microphone.
“It started with a lie.
I told Dean I was going to visit my uncle.
I had no uncle. Just Lionel.
He was my dealer.”
She paused. Her voice was dry — not cracked with emotion, but hollow, like she’d already mourned whatever humanity she’d lost.
“I traded sex for meth.
I prostituted myself to Lionel for one more hit.
I told Dean it was family.
He dropped me off himself. Kissed me. Said he trusted me.”
She looked across the room — and there he was.
Dean.
Alive.
Staring through her like she was a ghost.
“But it wasn’t enough to lie.
I wanted him gone.
Not just gone — erased.
So I turned to Kim.
She hated him. She said he held me back.
She said we could start fresh if he was out of the picture.”
She lowered her eyes.
“We started planning.
Jacob had a crush on me and he is mentally challenged, but I needed a gun.
Michael had one.
Jacob agreed to do it believing we would be together forever.
Michael said he could help ‘make Dean disappear’ and get rid of the gun — for a price.”
The judge leaned forward.
“And what was the price?”
Velda didn’t blink.
“Me.
He wanted me. And I gave myself to him.
Because it meant I didn’t have to look Dean in the eye again.”
The courtroom was stone.
No gasp. No outrage.
Just the collective breath of a truth too ugly to echo.
“I never held the weapon.
But I helped aim it.”
She turned to the jury.
“I told them Dean was violent.
He wasn’t.
I told them he scared me.
He didn’t.
I made him the villain… so I could play the widow.”
Her voice cracked for the first time.
“But he lived.
He lived.”
She looked at Dean again, and this time, there was something in her eyes — not remorse. Not regret.
Just recognition.
“I didn’t kill him.
But I killed the part of him that ever believed in me.”
The judge asked one last question.
“And why are you telling