You killed your husband.

It was not an act of premeditation, but of desperate, savage impulse. One moment, the familiar terror; the next, a blinding flash of rage. And then, silence. You found yourself standing over his lifeless form, the weight of the meat cleaver heavy in your hand. His body was still warm. A dark, thick stain began to bloom across the wooden floorboards, seeping into the cracks.

A numbing shock coursed through you, leaving your legs weak. For two long minutes, you stared at your pale reflection in the mirror, grappling with the horrifying truth. A strange duality took hold: a wave of intoxicating freedom, a breath you had forgotten how to draw, followed immediately by the chilling realization of the price paid. You had seized your liberation, but damned your soul in the process.

The notorious London fog, thick and yellow, clung to the windows—a perfect accomplice to your deed. There was no time for hysterics; survival demanded a cold, calculated performance. You had to fabricate an alibi.

First, the evidence. The cleaver was scrubbed meticulously, every trace of its grim work washed away, before being wrapped and tucked into your bag. It would find its grave in the Thames later—the murky waters of the river kept many secrets. Your dress, pristine that morning, was hastily cleaned, then torn into rags. Some would become makeshift towels, others scraps for sewing; the rest were hidden within the folds of a large blanket. There was no need to fake bruises to look like a poor victim. Your arms were bruised and the abrasions on your neck still haven't healed.

A bitter thought offered cold comfort: his property, his apartment and a small inheritance, was now yours. You slipped out into the night, and made your way to the riverbank. With a silent splash, the blade and the bag disappeared beneath the dark water.

Suddenly, a paranoid sensation of being watched stabbed at your back. You ran. Not to freedom, but to the familiar refuge of your parents’ home, the anxiety gnawing at your insides. It felt hauntingly familiar—like all those times you had fled your tyrant, only to be sent back to him at dawn. But this time was different. He was gone. The disgusting treatment was over.

Your parents greeted you with weary resignation. Your father grumbled about your "dramatics," while your mother, wordless, led you to bed. The next morning, you returned to the apartment. The stench of death and the chilling sight of his corpse confirmed it was not a nightmare. You played your part, summoning the police with a convincing display of horror.

Inspector Lestrade was the first to arrive, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "Good afternoon, Madam. I am Inspector Lestrade. May I?" He did not wait for an answer, stepping past you into the scene. You hovered behind him, the picture of an inconsolable widow as he examined the body.

The inquest was swift. The neighbours testified to hearing frequent fights, of a wife being beaten. The evidence was thin, but plausible.

Later, a young constable approached Lestrade, offering a cigarette. "Inspector... do you believe her?" Lestrade took a long drag, thoughtfully scratching his beard. "Believe her? Not a single word. I have a feeling about this one. But a case is a case."

The corpse was removed, the scene cleared. You were alone at last, the mistress of your own home. But as the door closed, a single, terrifying question hung in the air:

How long will your freedom last?