Til Death Did Us Part… Repeatedly
By the time I hit forty, I had accomplished two extraordinary things: I had married eleven times, and I had become a widow… eleven times. You’d think after the third or fourth, someone—anyone—would have gotten suspicious. But nope. Either I was just that good, or people are as oblivious as I always suspected.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I never set out to be a serial widow. I wasn’t some gold-digging black widow with a five-year plan and a shovel-ready grave plot. No, no. It just sort of… happened. Life has a funny way of presenting opportunities, and I simply had the audacity to take them.
And now, as I lie here on what is likely my last day on earth, I wonder—did any of them, in their final moments, realize it was me all along? Did Cornelius, the very first, put it together as the last breath left his lungs? Did Anthony, the third, have an epiphany mid-air as his car brakes failed? I guess I’ll never know. But let me tell you, their exits were nothing short of spectacular.
Husband #1: Cornelius “The Bold and the Brainless“
At 21, I married Cornelius, a wealthy, handsome man who thought his good looks exempted him from common decency. He had a habit of using his hands—unfortunately for him, so did I. He never thought twice about what I might do when he came home smelling like another woman, demanding dinner like I was some Victorian housemaid. His arrogance was his downfall. One night, I made sure his evening scotch was laced with just enough heart-stopping surprise. A quiet death, dignified even—at least compared to the rest.
Husband #2: William “The Accident-Prone Investor“
William was an investor. He invested in stocks, real estate, and—unwisely—in trusting me. Poor thing. He slipped in the shower one evening. You’d think the two-inch-thick layer of coconut oil on the floor might’ve been a warning, but alas. He went down faster than one of his bad stock choices. A broken neck. Tragic.
Husband #3: Anthony “The Speed Demon“
Anthony loved cars. Loved them more than he loved me, if we’re being honest. He had the audacity to tell me I “didn’t understand horsepower.” Oh, but I did. I understood it well enough to snip his brake lines and send him hurtling down a cliff at full throttle.
Husband #4: Cletus “The Food Critic“
Cletus was a man of taste. He liked his wine aged and his steak rare. Unfortunately for him, he also had a severe shellfish allergy. One exquisitely plated shrimp risotto later, and he was clawing at his throat like an extra in a zombie movie. A culinary masterpiece, if I do say so myself.
Husband #5: Robert “The Gym Rat“
Robert lived in the gym. The man had muscles on his muscles. I told him once that too much working out could be hazardous to his health. He laughed. Then, on a particularly intense workout, I made sure the weights he was benching weren’t properly secured. A 200-pound dumbbell to the windpipe—now that was a workout.
Husband #6: Henry “The Philanderer“
Henry had wandering hands and an even more wandering… well, you get it. He thought he was so clever, hiding things. But I was smarter. One evening, he took his usual evening swim. A simple little dose of an undetectable muscle relaxant, and he sank like a stone. It was a poetic end, really.
Husband #7: Samuel “The Conspiracy Theorist“
Samuel was convinced the government was tracking him. He kept his phone in the freezer and wore tinfoil hats unironically. He also, ironically, didn’t believe in fire alarms. When our little “electrical accident” set the house ablaze, he was too busy shouting about government laser beams to make it out.
Husband #8: Victor “The Insomniac“
Victor was always popping sleeping pills, but they never worked. I decided to help. Just one night. Just one little extra push. Who knew a person could sleep forever?
Husband #9: Timothy “The DIY Enthusiast“
Timothy was a handyman. He lived for DIY projects. He built shelves, fixed sinks, rewired light fixtures. I just helped him along. One unfortunate exposed wire, and he was lit up like a Christmas tree.
Husband #10: Charles “The Romantic Fool“
Charles loved grand gestures. He once tried to propose to me on a hot air balloon. I wasn’t having that. Instead, I suggested a scenic hike by a precarious cliffside. One “accidental” push later, and the mountains had claimed him.
Husband #11: Louis “The Final Act“
Louis. My last. He was different. He wasn’t cruel, or vain, or foolish. He was simply… in the way. But he was also the one I truly loved. And from our union, I had my one and only child—a child I cherished more than anything. And by that point, well—I had a reputation to maintain. A simple gas leak while he slept. A peaceful end.
And now, here I am. My time has come. Perhaps it’s poetic justice. Perhaps it’s just irony catching up with me. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that eleven was a good number. A solid number. And while the world will never know the true extent of my genius, I’ll die knowing one thing: I was never just a wife. I was an artist.
I amassed an empire of wealth, built on life insurances and inherited businesses. My child, my greatest love, will never know the horrors I have committed. And do I feel bad? Not even for a second. If I had the chance, I would do it all over again. And that, my dear world, is my final confession.
The End
