May 6, 2002
Boston, Massachusetts
To whom it may concern
My name is Ashton George Lingheart, and this is my confession. In July of 1998 I murdered my wife, Kim Rachel Summer Lingheart, a год after the birth of our son. No one aided me in the crime and it is a thing I regret еще than anything in the world. I hid her body in a well from our Назад location in New Jersey. My wife was a kind, gentle, soft-spoken woman whom everyone adored. She never got angry, even at the people who disrespected her. She loved our son just like a mother would, for she always wanted a family of her own. She was a self-less woman who never asked for much.
There was always a smile on her face. My wife was the center of the family and everything in the family revolved around her. She was so beautiful. I loved her so. You’re thinking if I’ve loved her why did I kill her. I’m not sure of the answer myself. Maybe it all started when I Остаться в живых my job.
I didn’t tell her because she deserved the finer things in life. Why my career plummeted, hers was sky high. She made еще money than me and that made me jealous. I never showed it. Even though I loved her I couldn’t help but feel less of a man. I wanted to tell her to quit her job, that I was the man of the house, but I had too much respect for her.
That was when I started drinking. She worried so much. I lied saying that I loved the taste of Scotch and Grey Goose, that I wouldn’t drink too much for her sake.
There were times when I actually wanted to beat her to a bloody pulp. I wish she would have been like any wife who would take their child, pack her things, and leave their husbands when the drinking became too much for them to handle.
No. My wife loved me that much. I remember her exact words being: “I married Ты for better или worst, Ashton. I’m never going to give up on you. I know you’re doing the right thing. I’ll never leave Ты for as long as we both live. I Любовь you.”
I wanted to cry. God, she was so beautiful. To me she was everything I ever wanted and I took her for granted. Once I forged checks with her signature to support my drinking habit. I remember her asking why she had to ay over three-hundred dollars. Though she never complained. How calm she was always I’ll never know.
I began to think about what life would be if she was out of the picture. Yes. What if something horrible happened to her that maybe I could use her life insurance to rebuild my career. No! I told myself over and over and over that I couldn’t kill my own wife.
Not after she discovered she was pregnant. It was the год 1997 of the месяц of May. She came crying to me and smiling. “We’re going to be a family!”
She proudly stared at the pregnancy test. I didn’t deserve to be a father. Nine moths later, December 29, 1997, my wife delivered a 5 oz. 5 lb. baby boy. She cried for hours and hours with joy. She asked me if I wanted to hold him.
My son looked at me. He had his mother’s eyes, the eyes I fell in Любовь with. “Beautiful.” I сказал(-а) that day. Right there in that moment I told her that I wanted еще children. Six at the most. What she didn’t know was that she would only have a год left to spend with the only child she would ever have. An entire год went by filled with nothing but Любовь for our child.
Tragedy struck on July 10, 1998. It was a cold night. My wife was Чтение a novel, her legs tucked underneath her. Quickly I choked her from behind. She flayed her arms. My wife was also a very strong woman, but not as strong as me unfortunately. I beat her in the head with a hammer. She yelped out in pain. The blood oozed from her scalp.
I didn’t care. I wanted her dead! I landed several stab wounds to her chest. She punched me in my face, running away with our son, crying. I hear her trip and took my opportunity.
The baby was crawling away from her, but looking at the blood. “Why?! Why?!” she cried trying to protect herself. I grabbed her ankle, punching her in the face. I got on вверх of her straddling her chest and landed blows to her face. My son continued to look at me, about to cry.
“Why?! Why?! Why?!?” Grabbing a нож from the counter I stabbed her multiple times. I cut one of her fingers off and I wanted to stop. I wanted to rewind the time that I did this so that I could see her smile again. My son wailed as if saying he wanted me to stop hurting his mother. But I couldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry baby.” I paused for that one moment. She was crying too. Then with a smile she said, “I…love you. I forgive you…” Her reason for saying that was ridiculous. Her own husband was killing her and she forgave me. She was such a damn fool! “But…why…?” she choked on her own blood. I had to do something fast.
She was still breathing. Damn-it. In instant slow motion I pulled out the gun in my belt, held it to her temple and pulled the trigger. I never heard my son cry so loudly as he did that night.
I was a jumbled mess of nerves. She was dead. There was nothing I could do. Hastily I gathered myself, smearing еще of her blood on myself while slowly backing away. My son was wailing so loudly he would’ve alerted the neighbors. My feet pounded up stairs, down the hall, and to the left where my wife and I shared a room. I stripped the постель, кровати of all its sheets. I knew God wouldn’t forgive me. My son, I could still hear him screaming. I should kill him too.
No. He’s the only thing I have left to remember my wife by. I wish I could put everything I done into perfect detail. All I remember is the adrenaline rush. My wife was as light as a feather. It made me ashamed to put her in the earth. I’m sorry if things had to come to this. I’m sorry for a lot of things.
Damn-it.
Damn-it.
Damn-it.
Damn-it!!!
The air was cool and crisp tonight. The moon cast an eerie glow, hanging plump in the air with the twinkle of the stars. Then I saw it. The well. I almost slipped in the blood pouring from her body. My feet were weighed down my blocks of concrete. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. But she’s already dead. It’s too late.
With sheer will power my feet carried me. I stared down at her covered face where blood shaped it. I was going to throw up if I wasn’t careful. Then I dropped her. Her body made a light thudding sound.
I collapsed and threw up my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I believe I sat there for hours crying and crying for the only one person whom ever truly loved me. But now there was the evidence all over my body. All over the кухня and my son. I crawled back to my house and flapped onto the кухня floor holding my son to my chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” But sorry wasn’t going to undue my ways. Sorry wasn’t going to bring back my beautiful, sweet, kind, warm, and talented wife Kim. My son would have no mother and I was to blame for that. It’s been four years I believe since that horrible tragedy in my home. I sit in here in this hotel room Письмо my confession, hoping someone may find it someday so that my wife’s parents will know what monster would kill a daughter, sister, and wife. She’s with the Ангелы now. I hope I get to see her. But I know I won’t Присоединиться her even in death.
There’s еще to this letter but I guess to whomever is Чтение this will be disappointed. I don’t plan on living anymore. In the end… I wish I could get to know everyone…just a little bit longer. But they wouldn’t want to know me. I killed my wife. As for my son I gave him away to a good family. I haven’t seen him in four years. What do I say if I do get the chance to see him? It’s too late. After four years on the run the police have finally caught up with me. If I go to prison who knows how long I’ll die and I don’t want to wait around for it either. Before I go I want to say I enjoyed my life. I had a family. Until I took it all away. Ты won’t believe me when I say I met someone. She was a young girl. She sat in this very room with me before I pulled the trigger. The last thing I saw of her were her фиолетовый eyes. She was the most prettiest girl. I wish I knew her name.
Boston, Massachusetts
To whom it may concern
My name is Ashton George Lingheart, and this is my confession. In July of 1998 I murdered my wife, Kim Rachel Summer Lingheart, a год after the birth of our son. No one aided me in the crime and it is a thing I regret еще than anything in the world. I hid her body in a well from our Назад location in New Jersey. My wife was a kind, gentle, soft-spoken woman whom everyone adored. She never got angry, even at the people who disrespected her. She loved our son just like a mother would, for she always wanted a family of her own. She was a self-less woman who never asked for much.
There was always a smile on her face. My wife was the center of the family and everything in the family revolved around her. She was so beautiful. I loved her so. You’re thinking if I’ve loved her why did I kill her. I’m not sure of the answer myself. Maybe it all started when I Остаться в живых my job.
I didn’t tell her because she deserved the finer things in life. Why my career plummeted, hers was sky high. She made еще money than me and that made me jealous. I never showed it. Even though I loved her I couldn’t help but feel less of a man. I wanted to tell her to quit her job, that I was the man of the house, but I had too much respect for her.
That was when I started drinking. She worried so much. I lied saying that I loved the taste of Scotch and Grey Goose, that I wouldn’t drink too much for her sake.
There were times when I actually wanted to beat her to a bloody pulp. I wish she would have been like any wife who would take their child, pack her things, and leave their husbands when the drinking became too much for them to handle.
No. My wife loved me that much. I remember her exact words being: “I married Ты for better или worst, Ashton. I’m never going to give up on you. I know you’re doing the right thing. I’ll never leave Ты for as long as we both live. I Любовь you.”
I wanted to cry. God, she was so beautiful. To me she was everything I ever wanted and I took her for granted. Once I forged checks with her signature to support my drinking habit. I remember her asking why she had to ay over three-hundred dollars. Though she never complained. How calm she was always I’ll never know.
I began to think about what life would be if she was out of the picture. Yes. What if something horrible happened to her that maybe I could use her life insurance to rebuild my career. No! I told myself over and over and over that I couldn’t kill my own wife.
Not after she discovered she was pregnant. It was the год 1997 of the месяц of May. She came crying to me and smiling. “We’re going to be a family!”
She proudly stared at the pregnancy test. I didn’t deserve to be a father. Nine moths later, December 29, 1997, my wife delivered a 5 oz. 5 lb. baby boy. She cried for hours and hours with joy. She asked me if I wanted to hold him.
My son looked at me. He had his mother’s eyes, the eyes I fell in Любовь with. “Beautiful.” I сказал(-а) that day. Right there in that moment I told her that I wanted еще children. Six at the most. What she didn’t know was that she would only have a год left to spend with the only child she would ever have. An entire год went by filled with nothing but Любовь for our child.
Tragedy struck on July 10, 1998. It was a cold night. My wife was Чтение a novel, her legs tucked underneath her. Quickly I choked her from behind. She flayed her arms. My wife was also a very strong woman, but not as strong as me unfortunately. I beat her in the head with a hammer. She yelped out in pain. The blood oozed from her scalp.
I didn’t care. I wanted her dead! I landed several stab wounds to her chest. She punched me in my face, running away with our son, crying. I hear her trip and took my opportunity.
The baby was crawling away from her, but looking at the blood. “Why?! Why?!” she cried trying to protect herself. I grabbed her ankle, punching her in the face. I got on вверх of her straddling her chest and landed blows to her face. My son continued to look at me, about to cry.
“Why?! Why?! Why?!?” Grabbing a нож from the counter I stabbed her multiple times. I cut one of her fingers off and I wanted to stop. I wanted to rewind the time that I did this so that I could see her smile again. My son wailed as if saying he wanted me to stop hurting his mother. But I couldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry baby.” I paused for that one moment. She was crying too. Then with a smile she said, “I…love you. I forgive you…” Her reason for saying that was ridiculous. Her own husband was killing her and she forgave me. She was such a damn fool! “But…why…?” she choked on her own blood. I had to do something fast.
She was still breathing. Damn-it. In instant slow motion I pulled out the gun in my belt, held it to her temple and pulled the trigger. I never heard my son cry so loudly as he did that night.
I was a jumbled mess of nerves. She was dead. There was nothing I could do. Hastily I gathered myself, smearing еще of her blood on myself while slowly backing away. My son was wailing so loudly he would’ve alerted the neighbors. My feet pounded up stairs, down the hall, and to the left where my wife and I shared a room. I stripped the постель, кровати of all its sheets. I knew God wouldn’t forgive me. My son, I could still hear him screaming. I should kill him too.
No. He’s the only thing I have left to remember my wife by. I wish I could put everything I done into perfect detail. All I remember is the adrenaline rush. My wife was as light as a feather. It made me ashamed to put her in the earth. I’m sorry if things had to come to this. I’m sorry for a lot of things.
Damn-it.
Damn-it.
Damn-it.
Damn-it!!!
The air was cool and crisp tonight. The moon cast an eerie glow, hanging plump in the air with the twinkle of the stars. Then I saw it. The well. I almost slipped in the blood pouring from her body. My feet were weighed down my blocks of concrete. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. But she’s already dead. It’s too late.
With sheer will power my feet carried me. I stared down at her covered face where blood shaped it. I was going to throw up if I wasn’t careful. Then I dropped her. Her body made a light thudding sound.
I collapsed and threw up my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I believe I sat there for hours crying and crying for the only one person whom ever truly loved me. But now there was the evidence all over my body. All over the кухня and my son. I crawled back to my house and flapped onto the кухня floor holding my son to my chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” But sorry wasn’t going to undue my ways. Sorry wasn’t going to bring back my beautiful, sweet, kind, warm, and talented wife Kim. My son would have no mother and I was to blame for that. It’s been four years I believe since that horrible tragedy in my home. I sit in here in this hotel room Письмо my confession, hoping someone may find it someday so that my wife’s parents will know what monster would kill a daughter, sister, and wife. She’s with the Ангелы now. I hope I get to see her. But I know I won’t Присоединиться her even in death.
There’s еще to this letter but I guess to whomever is Чтение this will be disappointed. I don’t plan on living anymore. In the end… I wish I could get to know everyone…just a little bit longer. But they wouldn’t want to know me. I killed my wife. As for my son I gave him away to a good family. I haven’t seen him in four years. What do I say if I do get the chance to see him? It’s too late. After four years on the run the police have finally caught up with me. If I go to prison who knows how long I’ll die and I don’t want to wait around for it either. Before I go I want to say I enjoyed my life. I had a family. Until I took it all away. Ты won’t believe me when I say I met someone. She was a young girl. She sat in this very room with me before I pulled the trigger. The last thing I saw of her were her фиолетовый eyes. She was the most prettiest girl. I wish I knew her name.
My type of emotions conveys
onto how i'm really feeling inside,
my thoughts mainly consist on the
back-ground of my poetry.
As my addictive persona
starts to silhouette every-
word that i've written out
the nature of my emotions
starts to unravel at every-
line,
My Поэзия has a piece
of imagination within it-
self, the artwork of
each line has it's own
significant meaning.
Where the beauty is
that's where the poetry
lives, it lives within my soul,
as i carry each and every-line
with care, i start to share a
piece of me inside every-
lyrical line that i compose.
onto how i'm really feeling inside,
my thoughts mainly consist on the
back-ground of my poetry.
As my addictive persona
starts to silhouette every-
word that i've written out
the nature of my emotions
starts to unravel at every-
line,
My Поэзия has a piece
of imagination within it-
self, the artwork of
each line has it's own
significant meaning.
Where the beauty is
that's where the poetry
lives, it lives within my soul,
as i carry each and every-line
with care, i start to share a
piece of me inside every-
lyrical line that i compose.