Many people say the world would be a better place without poverty, or without war, or without cancer, but Paul was convinced that none of these issues matched the suffering that he felt having to live with her.

Every mannerism, every action, every sound that rolled from her venomous tongue made Paul want to place a screwdriver in each nostril and then slam his face into a table.

The pain and suffering would be over and the living hell which he had persisted with for so long would come to a bloody and spontaneous end.

Just the thought of the mental anguish that his death would cause brought Paul tremendous enjoyment. The look on her face as she discovered his still warm corpse, blood flowing from his nose, two metal pins decimating his frontal cortex. That look, of sheer terror and anguish, it filled him with a glow so warm not even she could douse it.

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to die, for he had much to stay alive for. No, instead it was the thought of escape that drove him to think such things. It was an escapism fuelled by unrivalled and unending hatred.

There was no peace to be had. Not from her and not from the hate that had seeped into every pore of his body. It had consumed him, and though at first he tried to fight, now he welcomed it. It had become his most trusted and loyal friend and he bathed in its company.

There was not a single redeeming quality that she possessed. Every breath she took deprived something more worthy of oxygen. Every word she spoke infected his thoughts like a virus. Even if they were in separate rooms, her mere presence was enough to cause him to sit white knuckled, fingers clasped around the nearest object that could be forced into his nasal cavity at a moments notice.

He could sense her. Even from 50 feet away his skin crawled because of her. Every hair became a razorblade that dug into his flesh.

Nobody knew what it was like to live on the edge.

Nobody but him.

He walked a delicate tightrope of suicide and mass murder.


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