How Do You Know the Person You Live With Isn’t a Murderer?

Plus other such suspicions

How well do you really know your partner? Or the people around you? Are they hiding their true colors from you or are you a good judge of character? Right now, I’m not so sure. I’m not sure at all.

What’s so funny, punk?

This morning, I saw my husband smiling into his phone while sitting on the toilet. For someone who is almost never cheerful, this was odd.

“You look happy. What’re you smiling at? And please, close the door next time!”

“Oh, just some funny killing videos. And sorry, no can’t do. I like watching you watching me in the toilet, ha ha ha.”

Through the cacophony of swishing mouthwash and dripping pee, I couldn’t hear him well enough. Did he say killing? Or was it drilling? Or grilling?

My instincts were on alert now and I felt a shiver go down my spine from the leak in the airconditioner. My gut and its bacteria went into overdrive, sending me warning signals to never eat a burger with fries and a shake after midnight, and that he was going to kill me.

I watched him intently, and even washed my face with my eyes open, blinking at the soap stinging my eyes. As he got up and came towards me. I jumped away and stood in the shower with the door closed and my clothes on.

He asked if I was going crazy; I asked if he had flushed. I said no; he said yes.

We were both lying and we knew it.

What happens up the stairs, rolls down below. Or not.

I waited five minutes to get out after he left the bathroom. Mostly because I was watching self-defense videos on YouTube, but then I got distracted with what to wear when my body is found, in case my picture is leaked to the media. Matching tie-dye t-shirt and shorts, check ✅

When I stepped out of the room, he was standing by the stairwell. “Waiting for you,” he said. He hadn’t waited for me even at the altar, so this was certainly weird.

Goosebumps hit me swift and fast, making the hair on my arms stand straight up. I made a mental note to shave them before my time was up.

As I got closer to him, he stepped to the left to let me in front of him, I stepped to the right and back behind him. He stepped to the right to let me pass, I stepped to the left and to the back.

He did it again, I did it again.

We danced this way a few more times until one of our dogs barked at us to stop this shit and take them out.

“Why are you trying to get behind me!? Did you think I was going to………….” he said with his arms outstretched.

Was he going to admit it? Dammit, I should’ve hit record on my phone!

“….. tickle you?”

Tickle? Did he say tickle? Oh he’s playing innocent, huh?

I had to play along, so I simply smiled and shook my head. We then proceeded to amble down the stairs in one awkward, elbow-hitting, close-knit unit of four human feet and eight dog feet.

On our walk, I observed every move of his through the holes in my hat. Even when my neighbors came up to say hi, I pushed them aside and ignored their confused looks so I wouldn’t lose sight of him.

But I didn’t have to try too hard because he stayed right beside me the entire time. So close, that walking with my pupils squinted and scrunched to one side proved really challenging. I kept tumbling into him and tripping over my dogs, while he kept asking me to look straight and walk. I knew it was a decoy to stab me from the side so I didn’t give in.

To a naked person’s eye, he really wasn’t doing much, just picking up poop (the dogs’) and scratching bellies (his); completely normal and utterly embarrassing. But only I knew there was more to it — what, I still don’t know, but there was something more than just pollen and the smell of my neighbor’s stinky tofu in the air.

“Hey, I know you’ve been dying to try out that new ice cream place. Do you want to get some?” he suddenly asked.

“Huh? Uhm…sure.”

He’s being nice, really nice. Why’s he being so nice?

It isn’t even my birthday, so no, there’s no reason for him to be nice to me.

I scream, you scream, we all scream when I scream

The ride to go buy ice cream was tense.

He tried to make small talk (strike 1), turned up the volume when my favorite song played (strike 2), made a couple of decently funny jokes (strike 10), and even held my hand (strike 223882).

All the while, his right thumb was texting away to glory.

“Who are you sexting?” I asked innocently.

“Ha ha, very funny. I’m placing the order so we can do a pick-up.”

I was sweating now. He was ordering for me! Restaurant: How can I help you today? Him: Hi! I’d like to kill someone with an extra large hot fudge sundae with double the fudge, double the brownies, with a fatal dose of whipped cream and cherries.” Restaurant: Sure thing, perfect choice! Death by Chocolate, indeed. Ho ho ho! Please enter a name for the order— —

— — Oh Fuck, my name! I was screwed: 1. I had not taken his last name so would anyone know to suspect him? 2. Would they spell my name right in the obituary? Heck, would they even pronounce it right? Also, side note 3. If Netflix were to buy the rights to my murder story, what would they call the show? How Pre-eti Became Post-eti? The Ice Cream Killer? Murder She Ate? From Cherry to Coma: The Sugar High Murder?

But these thoughts had to wait — I had some killer ice cream to consume.

It’s been about five minutes now since everything went quiet.

I am sitting on our bed, alive and with freshly blow-dried hair. I decided to leave the world having a good hair day in the event he strangles me in my sleep.

He lays next to me with his back turned towards me. I can see a muted video of a silly dog was humping a teddy bear playing on his phone. If it weren’t for my impending death, I would’ve left him for his (lack of) sense of humor.

Five minutes ago, I heard him snore. But I knew he wasn’t sleeping so I took my fingers to his nose and closed in on his nostrils. I stood this way for a long time, feeling the air go in and out — fast at first, and in struggling fits after.

It’s been about five minutes now and I wonder if I should catch some sleep before he wakes up to kill me. Maybe he will try again tomorrow?

I turn and hug his cold, stiff body, pulling the blanket up to his chin to keep him warm. I guess I’m going to have to wait to find out.

Dedicated to all true-crime fans who have a partner in a relationship with their phone. No partners were harmed in the writing of this story — only in imagination maybe.

For more such bone-chilling stories, please head over to read The Dumbass Kristen Stark:

Preeti Ramachandran writes personal stories about her wonderful life and extremely normal mental health. She believes she is funny, tags her articles with “Humor” and also dabbles in fiction. P.S: She finds it weird to refer to herself in the 3rd person.