Ben’s dead. The plan worked.
I was super scared he’d find out, you know, me sneaking around and messing with his car. But I couldn’t risk it. Ben’s been such a snivelling little piece of shit, cheating on me for years, YEARS, with both men and women. Of course I wouldn’t let him do this to me forever.
I studied, because I had no job.
I read about general anesthesia and cars. I read about hydraulic brakes. For a whole year and more, I watched him just shove me in the corner and leave me there. Never including me.
They found Ben’s car, the bonnet smashed into a tree. The jerk was still alive. He still looked bad. They called me. Ha. Wife and all.
I pretended to be hysterical when I saw him. All the while feeling a savage pleasure inside. His leg was in pieces. He’d need surgery. I signed the consent form and they wheeled him in. I snuck into the OR, pretending to be the anesthesiologist in my mask, and in scrubs I’d bought for some role-play sex (that never happened, surprise, surprise) and I injected insulin into the vial of his thiopentone sodium.
Hypoglycemic shock and – dead Ben. It happened so fast, and nobody realized and I’m still safe – for now.
Gonna have to get rid of myself and leave this diary behind as evidence. And I want his bitch of a family to know that he should really have learned to keep it in his pants. And that Libby, the one they all hated, won.
– Libby’s Diary entry, February 2008