Along time ago, in another country, I nearly killed a woman. It’s a particular feeling, the urge to murder. First comes rage, greater than any you’ve ever imagined.
It takes over your body so completely it’s like a divine force, grabbing hold of your will, your limbs, your psyche. It conveys a strength you never knew you possessed. Your hands, harmless until now, rise up to squeeze another person’s life away.
There’s a joy to it. In retrospect, it’s frightening, but in the moment, it feels sweet, the way justice feels sweet. Agatha Christie had a fascination with murder. But she was a tenderhearted person.