He stood before me with fire in his eyes, teeth clenched and arms straight at his sides. A demand for truth hung in the air before me. What could I do but to grab it and reveal all? A dangerous thought. For the revelation would be more alike to the end of the holy book rather than the simple explanation he was surely expecting. To say aloud that I had been stalking the streets at night searching for a righteous kill. For him to know that a deep and dark part of me enjoyed the fading light from a persons eyes as their life slipped out of their bodies. The only comfort I could give him to ease this stark reality was the fact that I was not completely without a conscious. The only lives I took were the ones that caused the pain and suffering of others. A deduction I had made was that the heinous sin of my taking a life was lesser than allowing such a person to continue with their misdeeds. An even harder pill to swallow was how I knew without question who would balance out my evil with their end. Like a song carried along on a breeze I could feel, and maybe almost hear, the wrong-doings of another emanating from them. It carried me towards them and lulled me into the kill like a dark hymn.

I sighed deeply. I loved this man before me more than I ever thought was possible. If it meant that I may keep him near me it was worth it. If the truth would truly set me free, perhaps my freedom would be the acceptance of another.

“You know the one they talk about on the news lately? The one responsible for all those vigilante murders?”

The stubbornness in him did not waver.

“The Night Stalker, yeah what about him?” He tapped his foot impatiently.

“Not a him.” I snapped back. It irritates me that people always assume a male was their vigilant hero.

My husband was irritated and now confused.

“What are you taking about?!”

“I kill people. It’s me.” I blurted out clumsily. No matter how long I had known and loved this man he always had a way of making me nervous and awkward.

I watched as the expression on his face changed from a furrowed brow to a look of cold realization.

“No you don’t.” He said, not actually a retort but more of a self assurance.

“That’s where I’ve been. It’s why I watch the news so closely. It’s why I have cuts and bruises. You are married to a killer. I am sorry.”

“Sorry?! Sorry for what?! Killing people?”

He was frantic.

“No. Not that.” I said plainly. His panic was increasing. It hurt to see it.

“I’m sorry to do this to you. I’m sorry I’m not the person you thought I was.”

He backed away a few steps and ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. A sign of desperation I had seen too many times. He paced around the bedroom, an incredible weight laid suddenly upon his shoulders.

He finally stopped and looked at me, his eyes red and threatening to tear up.

“Why? Why hide this from me? You’ve been lying to me!” He exclaimed.

It’s not the reaction I had expected.

“I didn’t want you to be implicated if I got caught.” An obvious statement to me but not to him it seemed. He stepped towards me quickly and I flinched. Not for fear he would hurt me, but that now would be the moment where he said he hated me and no longer wanted anything to do with me.

Instead he lifted my hands with his and held them against his chest.

His eyes showed not fury, but compassion and perhaps sympathy.

“No more lying. No more hiding things.” He said with a voice crackling with emotion.

My heart sunk and a hot pain radiated through me.

“You want me to come clean. If it’s ok can I wait until the morning? One last night in a real bed?” I asked meekly, looking down at my muddy shoes. My favorite pair of running shoes. Damn that man for trying to cut though a park.

My chin was suddenly lifted and my husband looked into my eyes with concern and urgency.

“No! You belong with me.”

My heart welled with joy. Truth shall set you free.