text: 11:41pm I slip my shoes on and open the door, ready to head out. ‘Do you have your keys’ he asks me standing right next to me. Without a word I take them from the hook next to the door and slam it into his face. I don’t want him (coming) with me again. It is dark and raining outside and I don’t have my jacket, I bury my hands in the sleeves of my worn hoodie. At least I am away from his constant nagging and his voice in my ear telling me who I am ‘supposed’ to be. I walk down the sidewalk briskly; I can’t tell if it’s the rain hitting my face or my angry tears streaming down it. It’s wet either way. I wipe my brow with my sleeve. I tell myself that it doesn’t really matter. I feel too much all the time anyway. To shut up my brain I take out my headphones, the song that comes on only reminds me of (him and) myself in a myriad ways so eventually I lose myself in it. By the time I enter the subway station, he has caught up with me, standing to close to me again. He turns to me and smiles ‘You’re wondering why you can’t I ever shake me off’ he says and then he answers his own question ‘Because you know we belong together, you still need me, and honestly, I don’t know what you would do without me? Do you?’ I don’t even want to think about that, but my brain forces me to anyway, for a moment I wish I was alone just once, unhaunted, just me (him). ‘No’ I finally reply. We board the subway he is finally quiet now. But this is just another way of torturing me. I know it. This is giving me space to think about what I’ve done. What I do. (I know it is wrong. Of course I do.) He makes me feel so wrong about things, he makes me hate myself when I only want to love me. Without words he told me so. And with words. He tries to stop me every time. He begs me to(o). I never listen. I hate it so. His morals, what do I care, I like the way things make me feel, why should I always put others first; and it’s not like I don’t care about people, I don’t just kill anyone I do believe in making the world a better place but what does he see? Just a killer. Isn’t the world better without some people? I (would) function so well without his concerns. I look out of the window but the only thing I see is my face. I look dishevelled and pale. I run my hand along my jawline where I’ve managed to grow just an inch of stubble, (he is) always shaving it before it gets too long. The stops fly past, before I know it, we’re there. I get up, turn around and find him gone. Great. He's never there for me when I need him, I think. Or maybe he is, and I just never notice him, I (can) imagine him standing outside, in the rain, wearing my clothes. This is not the time to be(come) paranoid. I shake my head and ruffle my hair; I press the thoughts about him into a corner of my mind so I can forget him for a while. It’s past midnight now. It’s still raining outside. I am soaked by this point but warm, with excitement too, I can’t supress a sheepish smile. I know what’s going to happen and I am enjoying it already, the feeling of doing something completely (wrong) my way! (Doing it anyway!) This is Freedom. While I walk along an unfamiliar street, a place I will (never) see again I take the Magnum out of my bag, I like to be consistent with numbers, I get it ready. I know the drill; I know the job. I don’t need to check the address. The building I enter smells funny, sort of like an old people’s home but also like a new couches and cheap perfume. I press the button for the elevator up. I walk along an unfamiliar corridor and stop at Nr. 41. There is light beneath the door, and I knock, I have my gun ready, my left hand hidden behind my back. 6:41 am I wake up and he’s asleep; still, I can see him lying in bed (next to me). I go to the bathroom for a piss. My aim is bad today (as always), but he won’t care until later. I pull up my trousers and look into mirror, (his) unshaven face with dishevelled hair (looks back at me). I sigh and close my eyes for a moment. I am me today: I brush my teeth, and I shave my face. I am precise and correct. I leave no hair standing. I get dressed in the same manner. I like the order; I tie my tie and button up my shirt; this time when I look into the mirror in our bedroom to check the knot sits right in the middle, I see myself. I smile wide and my teeth are white my hair sits perfect. I push the digits of the safe and get my gun out and I put it in my holster. I love routines, so far this morning has been exceptional. I try to be noiseless I don’t want to wake him. No breakfast for me today. I don’t want him with me (again). In the kitchen I have a glass of water. I take my hat and jacket at the door and tie my shoes with precision. I take my keys from the hook next to the door. I remember my dream (last night). I feel dizzy for a moment I stare at (his) my hand on the handle of the door. The cold metal feels like the grip of a gun. I stand completely still in the doorframe for a minute unable to breathe; what have « we done. I hear him stir in bed now too, I hurry to head out before he is fully awake. Too late. He is leaning against the door of our bedroom dressed in my joggers and a shabby looking hoodie. Without a word he goes and opens the fridge, this is my moment I grab the doorknob and walk out of the door. I am about to breathe, thinking I got rid of him finally; he is behind me in an instant. I hear his slippers scratch across the concrete. ‘No Milk’ he simply says. I am a few steps ahead now, I walk to the station briskly, but (it honestly seems like) we touch the ground at the same time; always there, next to me. I wish he would leave me alone, just for a while. He never does, condescending and spiteful he stares at me from across the street and smirks; and he never actually talks. He thinks he knows how it drives me crazy; I want to be liked, most of all by him. But he takes pleasure in it. He knows what I try to do every day, we know that I will never succeed. I’m at the station now and its past seven. I sit at my desk and put my head in my hands. I take a sip of my coffee. Its taste is (awful.) just what I need. I open the report and start to read (what seems oddly familiar.) A murder downtown, I recognise the street name, I think I must have driven past there before. On the way to the scene, I put the radio on I look in the rearview mirror and (he) smile(s) at myself broadly. I turn up the music. (I hate his music, but I will stay in the car this is important) I check the route multiple times I like to be sure of things. Finally, I’m there and I leave the radio on and the car running, I don’t think this will take very long. As I enter the building I take the stairs to my left, I need to get my steps in and I don’t trust elevators, I am afraid of small spaces. I think to myself that it smells funny here, sort of like an old people’s home but also like a new couches and cheap perfume. I walk along the corridor, crime scene tape marks the door of Nr. 41, it is ajar and has bullet hole in the middle too. I inspect it more closely, it’s a .41, maybe a Magnum, I think to myself, I look at the door. 41. (Ironic, isn’t it?)