It felt like standing in the snow as it fell to earth, wet, heavy drops raining down. She tipped her head back, revelling, then stuck her tongue out and caught some on her tongue. It tasted rich, and she gagged slightly, then swallowed it down and opened her mouth wider. She had tasted blood before, of course she had, but never like this, never as it sprayed from the dying body of her boyfriend.

Getting him up there had been the toughest thing, the pulleys and ropes so obvious, she couldn’t believe he hadn’t spotted them. Then again, the knife in her hand had done a pretty good job of distracting him. She was glad he’d spun at the last minute, it had meant she could stick the garden fork through his face, and stare into his eyes as the blood streamed out.

He was perforated now. She’d lost control for a moment, stabbing and stabbing until the weight of the fork had dragged her arms to the ground and she’d stood, panting, in the rain. She had recovered now, though, and looked up through the dwindling flood. His eyes were fluttering, he was close to an unconsciousness from which he would never wake up. She wanted to cheer, and wave the fork above her head, her heart racing. Her chest was heavy, and tears stung in her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. She didn’t want his last thought to be that she was upset by his death, for the tears were of relief, and joy.

She stepped until she was underneath his dick, then rammed the fork up once more. She was rewarded with a faint moan, and his entire body jerked. When she looked back at his face, his eyes were sightless, face slack. He was gone.

With a sigh, she dropped the fork, the clatter loud in the silence of the house, and stripped. When her clothes lay in a pile beneath his body, she walked slowly to the shower, and enjoyed the scalding water, stripping away his blood, and the last six years.

They had started so well. He had been a gentleman, a real one, not like ‘twat-face’ before him. No one had found ‘twat-face’ yet, not that she’d spotted in the papers. That made her proud.

But David, the corpse now swinging gently from the lounge ceiling, had been decent. He held open doors, he listened when she spoke to him. He even wanted to help out when she had problems at work. He could be a bit suffocating, but it was worth it. She felt good about herself, and that alone was worth the entrance fee, not to mention the amazing sex, and he could cook! She should have known, really, when he put that first butternut squash and wet garlic risotto on the table with a flourish, that it was too good to be true.