She Loved Me Enough To Let Me Destroy Her

It's a simple matter to terminate her life, but I terminate mine first to ensure no one will lay the blame at my door. I hang myself in the hall, but the corpse doesn't please me, lolling there with its neck awry and the tongue hanging out, thick and extruded, like a piece of German sausage. I take hundreds of pills and wait for the rush of extinction to engulf me. The man comes to repair the dishwasher. Soon he has all the little bits and pieces laid out on the tiles. I feel terrible. Obviously the dishwasher will never work again. I go upstairs, take out my old revolver and blow my brains out. They slither down the mirror like a failed bolognese and I gaze at myself. Surely I look dead enough now? I go downstairs again and stand ostentatiously in the kitchen but the repairman doesn't look up. That's all the confirmation I need. I am obviously truly dead, now I can go and commit murder with impunity.

I call her up and tell her I'm leaving her. She wants to know who I'm leaving her for. Someone I've never met, I say. Someone anonymous with whom I have a blind contract of union til death. Long silence on the telephone line. Can we meet just once more? For old times sake? We arrange a rendezvous on a slash of green in the middle of the city, a tiny oasis of nature between buses and taxis.

When I arrive she's already waiting. My long-dead heart is beating like a time bomb. Her beauty assails me from the other side of the street - her tall, willowy figure, the long dark hair, the loose silky clothes she wears, the impertinent cheerfulness with which she tries to humour me. How can I explain to her my moral being has told me I must stop clinging to life and prepare myself for ressurection. I'm carrying an arsenal in my bag - domestic hammer. Cheese-wire, nail gun, plastic bag, waiter's corkscrew.

Underneath the statue of our custodian in the middle of the green triangle is a park bench. We sit on it and she embraces me. Her cheek is wet with tears. She asks why. One has sought out the condition of death precisely not to have to answer this question. I stab her. Then I place the plastic bag over her head. I sink back under the shadow of the statue, load the nail gun, and close my eyes. When I open them a part of me is now sitting next to her, timing the snorts and gasps of her final moments with an antique pocket watch.

"You seem to have achieved the desired effect. It's talking a while though."

"Don't talk to me, I'm dead." I reply to myself. To emphasise my point I cut my own throat. Then using the nail gun I pin myself to the bench, right through the heart.

"When did you first notice he had begun to change...?" I ask her corpse.