Fatal Passion

He unlocked the front door and walked into the apartment. He looked around the spacious living room with its elegant and tasteful design, the perfect balance of minimalism and modernism. Nicole always had great taste.

Heading straight for the kitchen to get something to eat. I'm so famished. He scanned the fridge for something good to munch on. She didn't have much in there. A carton of milk. A bunch of condiments. Store-bought pesto. He hated that she loved the store-bought stuff.

Why couldn't she make it herself?

One of the things he disliked about her, but nobody’s perfect he always said. He spotted a glass bottle of orange juice and reached for it. He placed it on the kitchen counter and found a cup. He poured himself a glass of juice and took a swig. It helped push back his nausea. He walked back to the still-open fridge and kept looking. There. Behind her container of yogurt was a Tupperware of Caesar salad. He took it out.

He was too out of it to let the salad sit and dug into it immediately. He ate at the kitchen island in utter silence. He had a million thoughts racing through his head.

Should I have done it? I had to, right?

The barrage of conflicting emotions felt like a noose around his neck, growing tighter and tighter with each second. He was panicked, feeling nauseous and choked at the same time. He propped himself up against the cold marble counter with his sweaty palms, trying to control his breathing, shaking.

He had come too far, there was no going back. It was all worth it, he thought. He began to regulate his breathing. He looked over at the glass of orange juice, at the glistening blood his handprint left on it. He had to freshen up. He wouldn't want Nicole to see him like this. Finishing the rest of the salad, he went into her bedroom.

He took off his blood-stained clothes and threw them on the floor. Her room was tidy, as all things “Nicole” were. He walked over to the toilet and ran the shower. Watching the blood-tainted water stream down the drain, he couldn’t help but smile. He was beside himself with excitement. He couldn’t wait to tell Nicole the good news.

He reached for her body wash, taking a whiff of it before applying some. It smelled like her and he loved that. He made sure he washed all the dried blood off his body. It amazed him how much had gotten everywhere, even in his hair. He scrubbed every inch of his body meticulously. After drying himself, he put on her bathrobe and walked over to her vanity table where he sat and stared at the mirror, at himself.

He had gotten a fresh shave and haircut hoping that she'd think he looked handsome. He was staring at himself, trying to rationalize what he had done, and was slightly startled by the voice from the hallway.

“Hello, who’s in here?” It was her.

He loved her voice, the sweetness of it. Even with the evident tinge of fear that laced her words, he couldn't help but smile at the sound of her voice. He was obsessed.

He calmly stood and walked towards his pile of clothes lying on the floor. He searched his jacket and pulled out the revolver. He stashed it in the pocket of her bathrobe and walked out to meet her. As he walked into the living area, he saw Nicole staring at the blood-stained juice bottle in the open kitchen. She was backing him and didn’t notice him walking towards her.

“Hi, Nicole.”

She screamed as she whipped herself around to see who the intruder was. She was startled and took a cautious step back once she realized who it was.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, horror etched across her face. “How did you get in here?”

"I used Tyler's keys," he said, smiling at her. "I've been waiting eagerly for you."

“Where is Tyler? What have you done to him?” she began to scream, her voice slightly cracked from her evident fear and building tears.

"You complained about him, how he maltreated you, how you weren't happy. So I fixed it, I fixed it for you. I...I got rid of him. I got him out of the picture, so you can be happy…so we can be happy together.” he said with a grin. He felt better now that he had shared the great news with her.

“What..what did you do to him?” she began to cry.

He was confused. Why was she crying? He assumed she would run into his arms showering him with kisses and praise for freeing her from her captor. Why the fuck was she crying. His anger slowly morphed into rage. He risked everything, he killed a man, just to make her happy. He would do more than that to make her happy, and here she was crying.

"I killed him, Nicole," he said, without flinching. "I killed him to make you happy. You wanted the divorce but he wouldn't let you go. He….he maltreated you, he made you feel worthless, he didn't love you, so I killed him. I killed him because I love you. I've loved you since high school when you didn't even know I existed. I'm sorry if my gesture of love isn't what you want. You seem confused about what you want." He couldn't understand her. Why did she stare at him like that, with disgust and fear?

"I didn't want you to kill him!" She was hyperventilating.

She began to pace, sobbing hysterically. He clenched his jaw, his eyes brimming with tears. He thought of how much he had sacrificed. How hard it was to dispose of the body. How he planned the execution for months, how he planned their life together. He found the love of his life and the only roadblock was her husband.

He had only one option that ensured they lived happily ever after, and he picked it. He did it and expected at least a bit of fucking gratitude. He wasn’t crazy for doing that, right? He was just fuelled by passion. A blinding passion for someone he’d loved in a parasocial way for years before their perfectly constructed bump in.

He ensured he was everything she wanted, anything she wanted him to be. He lost weight because he knew she would like it, he moved cities and quit his job to be with her, heck he killed a man for her. Yet, there she was, wailing for a man who never truly loved her. He felt a mix of embarrassment and anger as he looked at her. He hated the way she stared at him.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked. He had pulled the revolver on her. He was shaking with rage. “Please don’t kill me. Please!” cried Nicole.

Surely he had to kill her. She didn’t seem too pleased about the loss of her abusive partner, thus automatically making her a loose end he had to deal with. The casualties of unrequited love. He cocked the gun and aimed it at her heart. A fitting way to end her.

“Drop the weapon, now!”

The officers had arrived just in time. She had dialed 911 the moment she saw the juice bottle on the kitchen counter. The blood combined with the fact that her door was unlocked motivated the emergency call. No one else had the keys except Tyler, who hadn’t been to their apartment in almost a year.

He knew he was fucked. She had called the police and he was fucked. He stared at her with hatred. He killed for her and she called the cops, the hilarity of the irony was infuriating.

“Drop the goddamn weapon or we’ll shoot,” another officer yelled from behind him.

Fuck it, he thought.

He pulled the trigger and felt the sharp pain of the retaliatory shots fired by the officers as they hit his back. His breathing became jagged. He dropped to his knees. He was coughing up blood. That’s not good, he thought. The officers rushed to help Nicole as he slumped to the floor.

As he began to slip into unconsciousness, lying there bleeding out, the sounds around him started to fade into the distance. The distant echo of the officer restraining him and the urgent call for backup over the radio blended, becoming fainter with each passing moment.

"Dispatch, this is Officer MacBernie………we have an active shooting incident at Elm Street, Apartment 567. I need immediate backup and an EMT on the scene... One female victim was shot, hit her shoulder. We need additional units to secure the scene and medical assistance for both the victim and the suspect."

Fuck, I missed. He blacked out.