A Tell Tale Purity

This is a plot theft story, which means that I stole the plot of another story. This is my take on Edgar Allen Poe's, The Tell Tale Heart.


I remember the first time I saw her. She had just entered the library and turned in my direction for a moment when her brown eyes caught me with this piercing glare. It was unusual really. Born and raised here in South Florida, I had acquired a taste for the tan skin and dark hair of Latin women, but a redhead? It wasn't just her red hair. It wasn't just her lily white skin. To be honest, I don't know what it was. But I was certainly drawn to her. I waited a few minutes and then decided I should meet her. I found her sitting on the floor between the aisles with some books scattered around her. When I sat down next to her she looked at me with a slight smile and asked if she could help me. I explained that I thought she was pretty and since she was also apparently literate, I could not pass up the chance to meet someone who is both beautiful and potentially intelligent.

“Oh I’m not literate at all. When I write, it’s all actually gibberish. It’s only by coincidence that it ever makes sense.” she joked.

We met up a week later for dinner and conversation. We exchanged musical tastes, philosophical ideals and the origins of her faith. I found her faith in God to be quite beautiful. I am not at all religious, but I find the ability to just “know” that something such as God exists to be very child-like and innocent. My favorite part of her personality was the way she listened to music. Her hands would dance and she closed her eyes for Vivaldi. She listened to Beethoven like it was rock and she would get rough and passionate whenever she heard ‘O Fortuna’. She was also a musician. Her favorite song to play was Bach’s first Cello Suite. She often played the cello with her eyes closed and moved her head with the music. Sometimes I would wrap my arms around her and imagine that I was playing, or that we were playing together.

We had been dating for two years when I decided to propose. She answered with a simple kiss. It was actually our first kiss. You see, she came from a very strict Christian family. She was raised not to kiss a man until she was engaged to him, and obviously not to sleep with him until the actual wedding night. I have always had an exceptional appetite for women, so the abstinent relationship was very hard for me. I had never wanted any woman more than I wanted her. Nonetheless, I was very happy when she accepted my proposal. I had been so patient for the preceding two years, and now it was all coming together. Later that same night, around midnight, I went to her father’s house. I hid in the bushes while dressing. I wore three layers. The first layer was just my street clothes. The second layer was made from black trash bags. I covered myself from head to toe with airtight seals to make sure that there was no potential of leaving DNA behind. I used a simple breathing tube which went out the back of the suit for air. The third layer was sneakers, heavy sweat pants and a hoodie to minimize the chances of breaking the bags if there were a struggle.

You should have seen how patiently I crept open the door to his room. I wanted to savor this night. I turned the stereo on high volume playing Bach Cello Suite No 1. As he arose and asked who I was, I quickly spun myself around and slashed his throat. I almost decapitated him. His body continued to stand for a second while his head fell back, hanging from a small portion of flesh. Blood shot up like a fountain and covered the bed and I. I caught his body when it fell and cradled his head. I sat stroking his scalp and apologized for making his death so vulgar. I hope he heard me. A decapitated head can stay conscious for up to 12 seconds. I stayed in the room until the sheets were completely red. Admiring the shapes from the blood splatter on the roof and walls, I felt like an artist. I saw it as an expression of what it means to be human, to be mortal. I also felt as if I were one with the room, the blood and the body. When I left I wrapped the outer layer of clothes in the trash bags and burned the whole thing, disposing the ashes off the side of a road in the Everglades.

The next day, my wife-to-be arrived at her father’s house to tell him that she was engaged. Just like I wanted her to, she found the body. That is why his death had to be so bloody. I wanted her to know right away that he was murdered. It is also much more traumatizing to see the almost-decapitated head of your father than it is to just see his lifeless body still intact. She called me, hysterical and crying. I rushed over to comfort her and then gave her a ride to the police station so that she could be interviewed. When she was done telling the police all that she knew, I took her to my place to get cleaned up. She spent the entire day in my arms, never speaking a word; just crying. Her tears burned words in my smile; words that I could never speak. Looking in her eyes, I could almost feel the pain. For a moment I felt close to her.

At exactly 24 hours after the death of her father, I spoke to her. I told her to whisper softly. But her whispers sounded like screams. Blood-curdling screams. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I loved her dad. And I told her how I did it. Her face changed from despair to absolute horror. Still, she did not believe me. So I explained how the body was laid out, how his head was almost decapitated. When I came to her father’s house to pick her up, I did not see the body. She then knew that I was the killer. Her face held… Such terror, such disgust. In that moment, I became completely human. It was only a temporary humanity, but so fulfilling. She called me insane. I still do not understand why she would say that. I think that when people call another insane, they should define insanity in such a way that they themselves possess no element of it. She possessed love. Is love not irrational and therefore an element of insanity? She began to scream, but I covered her mouth and placed my hand on her throat. As she struggled, I asked her to forgive me and whispered her favorite prayer in her ear. “…And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…” At that moment, she stopped struggling. Her eyes stared straight up and I saw a tear run down her cheek.

I took her body to my garage where I cut her into pieces and then filleted the flesh from her bones. I placed her heart inside her cello. The meat was separated into two coolers and loaded into the back of my truck. I ground the bones into a fine powder and burned it into ash. I then took my airboat to the everglades where I scattered the meat and ash among an area largely populated by alligators. A few days later two police officers showed up at my door. I invited them in for coffee. They declined the coffee but insisted on having a seat in the living room. A missing persons report had been filed and they were here to question me. I expressed a genuine concern stating that I gave her a ride home the day after her father’s murder and hadn’t heard from her since. They seemed satisfied and were on their way out when one of them saw the cello and mentioned that he was a cellist himself. “Yes, it is her cello actually. A beautiful instrument. Would you like to hear it?” I asked.

The officer nodded and I began to play when a foreign sound began to emanate from the instrument. I tried to ignore it but the sound kept getting louder and louder so I stopped playing. The officer asked if he could play and I regrettably obliged. He sat down, bow in hand and asked if I had ever heard a metal song played on a cello and began to play. I don’t remember the name of the band who wrote it, but I remember the song. It was a haunting melody called ‘The Unforgiven’. Again, the sound penetrated my ears with its muffled attack. I began feeling dizzy and images of her death would render themselves before me. I couldn’t escape it. This was new to me and hard to define. Nervous and sweating, I couldn’t take it anymore. In a berserker state of mind I picked up the cello while he played and smashed it on the coffee table.