Leaning on the door jamb, I watched her as she lay quietly sleeping. No more mouthy nit-picking, no more squiggling and swaying in her seat, no more loud lilting laughter and no more guilty glances. No more of that stupid woman. No more. I walked down the stairs and into her studio. Stupid paintings. Piles of stupid sketches. What a stupid mess she made: paper and paint everywhere. Hundreds of bottles and tubes of stupid paints, dozens of stupid brushes. That's where my hard-earned money was going. That was stupid.

These sketches, what are they? Her new project? Another painting?! Who says? I never said. I never had any say.

I reached into my pocket for my lighter. One flick and I had the sketches in flames. The pages danced to a music of their own. They swayed with the undulating flames then turned into crisp black shells. A tingly warmth filled me as I watched them. Now what else can I do to clean up around here?

~~~

Rob returned to the room and stood at the end of the bed watching her sleep. A strange luminescent glow sparked in his eyes and a warm wet heat spread slowly over his hands. His left hand held a lighter; his right hand held a small black revolver. He lifted the gun, feeling the weight of it, feeling the power of it. With a small dull click, he loaded the trigger mechanism.

There was a sound. She stirred from her dreamless sleep and peeked her eyes open slowly to a thin crack, a split as sharp and slender as the first incision of golden light that occurs at the crack of dawn. Was it light or sound? she wondered groggily.

They both looked towards the chair. For a moment, the black dress seemed to wiggle and dance, as though it was in heat, then slid to the floor just as a fiery darkness danced through the doorway casting a black shadow.

With her half-asleep eyes unfocussed, she watched the dress. Rob glared at her one last time before the unearthly light in his eyes clouded over with an eerie blackness. He pulled the trigger.