Darling, your hand held the knife that slit my throat from ear to ear, but I do not believe you to be the one to blame.
No, as I look on from the afterlife, I can see that surely the inherent problems of your weaker sex lead us here to your addiction and my death.
It pains me to know that I was the one to first suggest to the doctor that you might be in need of some of medicine. You seemed agitated as I took on expanded responsibilities at the cotton exchange, and I needed you stilled.
The doctor assured me that it would quell any agitation in you, and for a while it did. But then even more aberrant behavior manifested, so I suggested to the good doctor that he find something more potent to still you.
I could see it in your eyes as you laid me low, an otherworldly possession that might have been considered fury or rage in a man, but must’ve been brought on by an unexpected complication from your medicine.
I am dead, my darling. I can only hope your demons are quieted, or that you find another man to quiet them.
I came across a report of a woman slashing her man’s throat in the late 1800s, supposedly she was high on morphine. I’m not exactly sure how she was able to stand if she was high on morphine, let alone kill a grown man, but at that time opiates were widely used as a solution to various “women’s problems”. Maybe she was just sick of being drugged.