Page 62 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Not tonight.

The weight of everything presses down. Not just my blanket, but the knowledge.

That I did it.

That I killed someone.

And not just anyone—a rapist. A predator. A monster.

But still... I killed him.

My chest tightens until breathing feels like a negotiation.

The tears come hard—ugly and unstoppable.

My shoulders shake as I bury my face in my palms, the sobs breaking out of me like steam from a cracked pipe.

There’s no elegance to it. No control.

Just everything spilling out.

Dexter whines from the floor.

Then a tiny yip—almost a question.

And finally, a soft scratch of paw against the comforter.

I peek over the blanket, eyes burning, nose blotchy. “Fine,” I whisper, voice wrecked. “But just this once.”

I lift the covers, and he doesn’t hesitate.

In one fluid motion, he hops up and marches straight to my chest like a soldier reporting for emotional support duty.

He curls there, warm and oddly reassuring.

His tiny heartbeat against mine.

His snaggletooth resting for a new day of sass tomorrow.

I wrap my arms around him, like he’s a stuffed animal I had as a kid—the kind that always kept the monsters away.

And finally my breathing slows.

My body sinks into the mattress.

And I cry until there’s nothing left.

Until sleep drags me under, one tear at a time.

There’s a distinct difference between being exhausted and being emotionally obliterated. I now understand that difference intimately.

When I finally stir, it’s not because I’m rested. It’s because a tiny, fluffy, pink-accented dog is standing on my chest like he owns the mortgage, huffing in my face with the righteous fury of a man denied his constitutional right to pee.

Sunlight spears through the curtains. I squint, trying to remember what day it is… or what universe I inhabit.

“Oh, snickerdoodles,” I groan. “I’m a terrible criminal and a negligent dog mom.”

Dexter huffs—dramatically.

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