The same movie ran in her head, the story of her triumph, where she killed Richard, hid his body and lived a life without fear. She turned on her side to watch him sleep. A pulse beat at the base of his neck. His hair was tousled, like a little boy’s, but even in his sleep, his face held the hard lines of cruelty. Annie imagined herself going down to the kitchen and selecting one of her grandmother’s wickedly sharp knives. She would then creep back upstairs, slide into bed and stab him twice. Once in the stomach, then the final slice across the neck. The blood would flow red against the white linen sheets as he gasped and gurgled his last breaths. The life-light, his evil essence, would seep out of his eyes until he was dead. Then she would be able to live again. Realizing she was panting with the visceral image painted by her imagination, Annie threw back the covers and slid out of bed.
