His body lies there, motionless.
What blood remains, trickles slowly from the gaping wound, flowing to the corner in which she has sought refuge.She can’t escape him. Even in death. This was supposed to make it all go away. It was the only way.
The blood draws nearer. She retches.

She gets up and slowly makes her way to the bed that was only minutes ago, the scene of a most harrowing act of lovemaking.
He is still hard, but she can’t tell for sure if it’s the rigor mortis setting in.
His hand lies outstretched, almost  like he’s pleading. She picks the bloodied pair of scissors and places it on the dressing table. It’s all she can do not to look at his reflection in the mirror.
It shouldn’t have come to this.
And yet it had.
She is yanked out of her thoughts by the sound of a car pulling up outside.
Shit.
She hasn’t had time to clean up.
Footsteps, then the sound of key in the door. Her door.
Her mouth goes dry, the knots in her stomach tighten.
The handle turns.
More footsteps, the bedroom door opens and he walks in. A smile on his face.
She looks at the bed. There’s no body. The scissor’s sit by the bed side. Clean.
He advances and she flinches… instinctively.
He smiles, almost menacingly, “You’re gonna be the death of me, babe”.