We drove on toward the coast.

You see, we needed someplace to stash the body. I started out with a full tank of gas, but all we could think about was getting as far away as we could, as quickly as possible. To her credit, none of this fazed my mother. She even helped me stuff the body in the trunk, and with my ex-boyfriend’s six-foot-six-inch frame, there was plenty of body to cram in there. He never hit me when we were together, but he didn’t have to. He’d betrayed me, stolen my heart and my mind and he would have sold me out if it came right down to it.

Sure, we’d started off alright, going for romantic walks through the country parks where he’d pick blackberries for me. He always only gave me things that were never really his to give. How stupid I was. Young love ruined my life. These errant thoughts flew away on the wind as I stepped on the gas, to put some miles between me and my pain.

That bastard would have killed me anyway. He had it all worked out in that evil brain of his: to get me knocked up and then convince me to take the pennyroyal that grew wild in his parents’ backyard, a “natural abortifacient” he claimed. Pennyroyal is deadly poisonous. It would have killed me. At least I was smart enough to look it up. I could have ended up dead of poison, self-inflicted as he slinked back under the rock he crawled out of. The perfect murder must look like suicide. I kept that in mind now as I eased my car forward on fumes, toward the rocky coastline.

I put the car into park and we sat there together, Mom and I, watching the sunrise out on the horizon. The world really was beautiful, if you stopped to look at it. Too bad that horrible people took to poisoning it with their hate.

“We could feed him to the sharks,” I said, and watched a smirk play upon my mother’s face.

“No,” she said. “Let’s just get him out of there and get it done.” We stood on a cliff and looked down at the rocks below. Thank goodness there was no blood to worry about. He’d grabbed me by the shoulders and my martial arts training kicked in. I had no idea what little pressure it took to snap a neck. I looked around. The place was deserted: not a person around for miles and miles. I opened the trunk, and after a round of tugging and pulling and shifting, my former boyfriend spilled out onto the ground. I kicked him in the head.

“Stop that,” said my mother with a chuckle. “He’s dead. You’re not hurting him. Now let’s get him over here.” Eventually, we dragged him to the very edge of the cliff.

I bent down, kissed his cold, dead lips, and then shoved him over. But then I turned away. I’ve always had a sensitive stomach and never could take much gore.

The sound of the crashing waves soothed my hyper nerves and calmed my disturbed mind. It was done. I could go home to an empty but peaceful house, lock the doors, and wait for the news to report the accident.

“What a tragedy,” they’d say: his family members who, under other circumstances, would have been accomplices in killing me. “He was such a wonderful son, and he cared about everyone, wouldn’t hurt a soul…” Yeah, tell it to the judge. They wouldn’t take away my victory.