-Antoinette-
Ah, my friend-I cannot say that I do not deserve this bitter fate; but had you known what I have known, felt what I have felt, you would have done the same. Even so, I am ill when I reflect on all those years I spent sulking, plotting my revenge. For all those years I had known exactly what was to be done. For all those years I had carefully examined every possibility, scrutinizing every minute detail. I lived only to accomplish this deed, yet I find no satisfaction in its completion.
I can clearly recall the fateful day when I first met the man. We were crossing the Atlantic, and I had been ill for a few days. He comforted me in my misery-little did I then know what he would do to me. Over the course of that voyage we became fast friends, and kept in touch over the next few years. And then-he did the unthinkable, and took what was dearest to me. For that I could never forgive him; will never forgive him. He soon moved to New York, and I heard nothing of him for twenty years. But do not think that I forgot-how could I? He had shattered my life, and so, I resolved to burn his. For all of those years I, in all outward manners, appeared to live a normal life. But he had destroyed me, and I would never forget.
Then, I heard from an acquaintance that he was returning to Europe for a month. I showed no emotion, hid every sign of recognition of his name, but inwardly rejoiced. Within a week, I was in New York. I asked around until I found his ship and date of departure. I soon found myself on a ship back to London. Late the second day, the opportunity presented itself. He had been invited to the captain's cabin for a late night drink. I stealthily made my preparations, ensuring he went alone. For two hours, I waited, each minute burning my sanity to ash. When I saw him emerge from the cabin, I in turn emerged behind him and quickly pressed my revolver between his shoulder blades. He froze in place. I whispered in his ear to keep silent if he valued his life. I led him to my cabin and tied his wrists and ankles, keeping the revolver pointed at him the whole time. I then told him of his evils, my years of waiting, my ruined life. He looked at me, and told me he had no recollection of me. He apologized, begged for mercy, but no amount of pleading could touch me now. My anger at that point was unbearable. I attached weights to his ankles, removed the contents of his pockets, and, opening my porthole, shoved his head into the night air. He begged for mercy. And as I shoved him out the porthole into the dark, stormy Atlantic, I will never forget the look in his eye. It haunts me even now in my dreams.
I took the key and crept to his cabin. I slowly opened the door, walked inside, and quickly closed it behind me. My sweet Antoinette was sleeping. I watched her a while, savoring the moment, and then gently woke her up. She looked at me and almost screamed. I calmed her down and told her what I had done; that she was now free. She looked at me in utter bewilderment, until it slowly dawned on her. I had set my revolver on the bed, but now she grabbed it and pointed it at my head. I leapt backward and once again tried to calm her. She was hysterical at this point, shouting and crying. And then-she pointed the revolver at her head and pulled the trigger. And here I am now, charged with the murder of the only one who I ever truly loved, she who upended my whole life with a glance.