Further Confessions; ‘Adapted from Vivika Widow’s Confessions of an anatomist


When my student days came to a crashing halt there was something that not even the police found out. Yes, my ‘victims’ – I hesitate to call them that, after all they were serving a higher purpose – were mostly my fellow students but in order to have an altogether prosperous student experience I had to rid of all pesky distractions. Unfortunately, this meant that certain family members had to go.

Firstly there was my mother. When I showed her my grades which were all perfect but one did she tell me how proud she was? No. Her words to me were, “You need to do better.”

I was patrolled around the rest of the family like the prize pup at the fair. I enjoyed the adulation at first but after a while of the forced ‘We’re so proud’ it became boring.

Mother would call me day in and day out to bend my ear about mundane things that didn’t interest me. She was quite committed to offering me a daily list of why I wasn’t as successful as I should be and why I would never make a wife to someone. She was taking up space in my brilliant mind that was needed to concentrate. I am forced to believe that not leaving me to concentrate was what caused my first anatomy test to return from its marking crusade with a big fat F. She had to go.

Then there was dear old dad. He and my mother had divorced just prior to me leaving for medical school. Being the patriarch had kept him busy with work. It was all he knew. The household was the woman’s domain so as long as he brought home the pay cheque from his job at the local bank that was his duties complete. Anything he said was a disdainful remark, usually focused on women being unsuited for pretty much anything outside of the kitchen. That was of course when I could elicit a conversation at all. Again these were silly problems to have and were keeping me from my ultimate goal of becoming a doctor. Daddy dearest had to go.

I know you’re reading this thinking ‘What a selfish little witch’ and I am inclined to agree but when you have the voices of expectation ringing in your ears and Professor McArrogant slapping you around with failed papers drastic measures have to be taken.

It all happened on a weekend I would normally have been spending in the library, leafing through dusty old anatomy books. I took the bus from the University back to my old town. My mother had called the night before and I gave her no inclination of my pending arrival. She was none the wiser.

I arrived at her home around three. It was a third floor flat, now that she and my father sold my childhood home and shared the spoils. She had given me a key so I could come back and forth as much as I pleased. The key fob when swiped caused the door to give a delightful little buzz like it was happy to see you. This made me smile. I didn’t bother to cover my footsteps. My mother always had her television blaring anyway with cooking shows.

I unlocked the door. As I had predicted the television was set to decibels that would cause walls to crack. The only reason she hadn’t received any complaints was because the old girl downstairs was as deaf as a door nail. She was in the kitchen. Her back was turned to me. She hadn’t noticed me behind her. She hadn’t felt a presence looming. I eased a drawer open whilst she was still busy making a cup of coffee. She still didn’t know I was there. I could have been standing there waving lights like an air traffic controller and she still wouldn’t have seen me. Time was of the essence. I still had to get across town to father after all. So I plunged the knife through her back, severing the aorta and killing her instantly. I’m not a monster. She was my mother after all.

On my way across town I began to think of my next test. If I wasn’t able to improve my grade it was likely I would be asked to leave the class by the end of the term. I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t face another F. Ever since I was a small girl all I ever wanted was to be a doctor. Nothing could stand in the way of that. I’m a people person, a healer at heart.

I caught a train across the city and began to make my way to the small house that my father resided in. It was a quaint little bungalow that was a bitch of a commute to get to. I was dedicated to my purpose though so a train ride, a bus and a taxi cab later there I was at his front door. This time I knocked. I had a key for there too but dad always left his own in the lock.

He opened the door and stared at me with vexation. “You should be at school!” he groaned.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Well hello to you too.”

I’m not giving you any more money,” he stated quite conclusively as he pulled a beer from the fridge and marched into the living room, throwing himself down on a tattered sofa.

If I was wanting to make my way back to the University before my favourite show came on I was going to have to be quick. Three words came to mind. Blunt Force Trauma. There was a heavy wooden statue of a bear that sat in the corner. I never did like it but it had enough weight behind it to serve my purpose. “Put that down. You’re gonna break the damn thing!” dad snapped.

He should have known better than that. Even after smashing a large gaping hole in his skull the ugly bear was still in tact.

So my studies continued quite blissfully until the damn police decided to put their nose in. I could have been one of the greatest anatomists of our time but that just wasn’t meant to be. In hindsight I should have probably paid a little more attention to covering my tracks but they say in the back of the mind of any serial killer lies an exhibitionist just dying to get caught.

The police don’t know about the parents. I think I’ll save that little treat for later…


Enjoy this?

Subscribe to the page for more images, news and thriller stories from Vivika Widow.



Let us know what you think ...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.