Sara made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

The carpet beneath her feet felt wet in places. She reminded herself she would need to clean up the blood before she went to bed. It wouldn't do to have all those stains visible when Macy arrived for morning coffee.

The house was quiet, serene for once. The prospect of continuing peace day after day, year after year, forever, was almost too much for her to bear. For a moment, she wanted to cry with the relief. She checked herself, unwilling to let go completely with her husband - his body at least - still in the house.

She opened the fridge and peered inside. Reminders of him sat mute on the shelves. Pepperoni sticks, a half-eaten pizza, and several cans of Bud. She'd clear him out tomorrow when she had time. Meanwhile, she took out some vegetables and spent a lazy hour making herself spaghetti and a pasta sauce, sipping from a bottle of Chablis she'd been saving for a special occasion.

It was nine o' clock when she settled down in front of the TV. She sat back with the plate on her knees and smiled to herself.

Thank God, she thought, it's finally over.

This time the bastard's really dead.

Julian put down his pen and looked up from his writing desk by the open window. He'd heard a noise, like a stifled cry. He frowned, unsure which direction it had come from.

Not downstairs. Sounds from the man who lived below were usually clearer, closer. This noise had come from further away. Perhaps down in the street, three floors down from his garret.

He heard it again. This time he knew it was definitely coming from outside. A scream, though muffled, as though the originator was inside a car or perhaps the phone booth at the end of the alleyway.

Julian stood in no particular hurry. His limbs ached and he took the time to stretch and wait for the blood to stop rushing to his temples. He leant forward to look out of the window. An icy wind chilled his face. There was snow on the pavement but no sign of anyone - no surprises there. It was early yet; couldn't have been more than five-thirty in the morning. So who was out there making a noise?

He leant back and slumped into the chair, picking up his pen instinctively.

Maybe a cat. Yep, that would be the most likely thing. The cry was plaintive enough, lonely and full of longing.

We were in the garden. Everything was green, hazy. Birds twittered in the overhanging trees and the fountain at the end of the path trickled softly.

"Did you ever want to kill Julian?" Macy had a habit of coming right out with questions like that. I loved her for it. It was one of the reasons we were best friends.

"Of course," I said without opening my eyes, letting the sun do its work on my face. It had been a long time since I'd felt uncluttered enough to spend time in the garden. Julian had never liked what he called lazy time. "He used to drive me crazy."

"I'm glad I never married," Macy said with a faraway voice. I could tell she meant what she said. I envied her courage, her independence. I'd never gotten over the trap of needing someone.

"His writing was always with him, taking up space in our lives… infecting us. I didn't so much want to kill him as the writer in him. Sometimes I would have gladly throttled him. Held on tight until the bastard was good and dead."

Macy chuckled. "Probably a good job you guys aren't together any more."

I sat up then and swiveled on the deck chair to face her. "Oh, but we are, Macy," I said. She pulled a face. "A bit of him - the bit I hated - is still here, still corrupting the house - and me."

"You realize you sound a little mad, Sara. Mad as in crazy."

"I know, Macy." I shook my head, trying to piece together the words to explain it to her. "But that's the truth of it. Either I'm crazy or there really is a little part of Julian left over, running around the house, terrorizing me. Sometimes I imagine him as real and go through the motions of killing him, just to be rid if him completely. Does any of this make sense?"

"I suppose." She looked me in the eye, her brow crinkling. "Should I worry about you, Sara?"

She heard a dull thud upstairs.

She didn't jump; she groaned. There was no way he couldn't be dead. She'd pretty much hacked his head off this time. What more was it going to take?

She put down her wineglass, her head beginning to feel muzzy, and switched off the TV with the remote. She stood and made for the kitchen, cursing herself for leaving the axe upstairs. He'd grab it for himself, no doubt threaten her with it. She sighed as she took a large bread knife from the second drawer down. It wasn't much, but it might slow him down.

She climbed the stairs, resigned. This time she'd finish the job. Hack him to little pieces and bury them in the garden. She should have done it earlier.

The sound was getting closer.

The muffled cries were inside the building now, in the stairwell.

He knew it was her now. He recognized the voice. He also knew something else: It wasn't her in reality. It was the demon in her, the bit he'd wanted to leave behind. And now, it was after him; had found him and wanted to kill him.

But she was weak. He'd be able to handle her.

There was a knock at the door, light, more of a scuff, as though her hands were having trouble making contact with the wood.

He stopped writing and laid down his pen. Now, he thought, now it's time for the final confrontation. She'd say what she had to say … get it out of her system. He'd let her, for closure, and then kill her.

He stood and took two paces. He pulled open the top drawer of the chest and dug his hands beneath the sweaters. His fingers found the gun.

"Julian?" Her voice was soft, imploring. "I know you're there."

He pushed the gun into the back of his waistband and went to the door.

She looked terrible. Her mascara had run. Wide tear marks stained her hollow cheeks. Her hair was greasy, her faded clothes limp. She looked like she hadn't eaten or slept in the three weeks they'd been apart.

"You found me," he said.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" She averted her eyes, as if she could see the disgust in his eyes. "Can I come in?"

"There's not much room," he said.

She sat on the bed and did a quick scan of the tiny room and said, "I can't believe you'd rather be here..."

"Everything I need, Sara." He pointed to the desk, his writing pad, and his pen. "Just like I always said."

"Your writing - destroyed us." Her voice was bitter, her lips shaped into an ugly snarl. "You and your characters … tore us apart. I can't - couldn't - compete." He stayed silent. He watched her breathe in slowly and tilt her head. The ultimatum was coming. "You've got to give up your writing and come back, Julian…"

"You know I can't do that, Sara," he said, his right hand going behind his back, fingers closing around the gun.

"He's a writer. He creates characters," I said. I still hadn't got the words right. I needed to explain to Macy so that she understood; so she wouldn't think I was crazy. "And the strongest characters he created - the one's that were alter egos of the two of us - somehow grew and became animate, but not quite - like ghosts, I suppose."

Macy nodded like a good doctor and I felt better.

"He used to say it was like I had two personalities. One being the beautiful, together wife - the one he loved. And then the other: a needy, greedy little girl who couldn't bear to be away from him for a second. He always tried to separate them. Tried to make me see they were two different entities. Well, eventually I did."

Macy smiled, taking a sip from her black coffee. Behind her, the high sun threw a halo around her corn-coloured hair. She looked a like a TV angel.

"When I finally kicked him out, I kicked her out too. With him gone, I didn't need her any more. I realized that she'd only been part of me because he'd invented her. And though he denied it, he needed her too."

"So … what about his alter-ego?" Macy asked. "What happened to it?"

"It stayed here. The part of him that needed me was too weak to leave. It hovered here, forever lonely, draining me." I looked at Macy, trying to judge what she thought, what questions she might be forming.

"But not any more," I said. "He's finally gone." I nodded to the fresh mound of earth by the path. "Dead and buried."

There was a knock at the door, light, more of a scuff.

He stopped writing and laid down his pen. Now, he thought, now it's time for the final confrontation. She'd say what she had to say… get it out of her system. He'd let her, for closure, and then kill her.

He stood and took two paces. His hand was on the drawer when the door burst open. The thin strip of wood that enclosed the lock split away from the frame. She stood in the open doorway.

She looked good, strong. Her face was well made up and her eyes sparkled. She wore a deep red power suit with padded shoulders.

"You found me," he said, swallowing.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" She pushed past him into the room and spun her gaze around the small space with a disdainful look. Then she laughed. "Got everything you need here?"

"Everything I need, Sara." He pointed to the desk, his writing pad, and his pen. "Just like I always said." He looked at her. She was trying not to laugh. He hated her then. Wanted to strangle her, wipe that expression from her face.

He lunged.

She moved to the side, lifted her hand and struck him on the side of the head. He lost his balance and fell forward on to the bed.

"You're pathetic," she said.

He stood and turned to face her, cowering despite himself. "And you're not real."

"Wasn't it me you always wanted? The pathetic weak thing that couldn't live without you?"

"No. I never wanted that."

"Good - because I'm different now. Stronger. And vengeful." She grinned before she dived for him.

Julian took a step back. His back pressed into the chair. Sara powered into his chest and pushed, forcing him to bend backwards over his writing space. He heard paper crumple and tear. His pen skittered from the table and fell on to the floor.

Sara lifted up his legs.

He was on the table, powerless, and he saw the edge of the window coming towards him. He felt absurd, not being able to fight back. Almost in slow motion, he felt himself slide out of the window. He spread out his arms, ready for impact - a futile gesture, he knew.

He was falling, frowning, looking back at her face, wondering why his stories always ended with a violent death.

END

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