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Jonathan could not believe that his wife had just killed him. It did not make sense. Incredulously, he watched as Pippa used a pair of scissors to slice the gloves she had been wearing into small pieces. She then walked into the study and scanned the room, making sure that everything was in order. She smiled.

Bitch, Jonathan thought to himself. Calculating, villainous, bitch! How long has she been planning to kill me?

He dredged through his memory, searching for any changes in her behaviour towards him. He could find none. The way Pippa killed him was also surprising. She was very squeamish about violence. Unless her fear of violence was a ploy to throw me off! No, that’s ridiculous. But how could he be sure of anything now? He had thought she loved him and yet she had brutally stabbed him in the neck with a fountain pen. He had to commend her for that. There was a definite irony in her choice of murder weapon. Because he was a writer, his meeting his end at nib-point was apt. He wondered if she had intended it that way. Maybe she was delivering a message by her choice of murder weapon? Had she been driven to murder because he paid more attention to his writing than to her?

He dismissed this idea immediately. It was preposterous. His writing had always been second to Pippa. He always made time for her. A few months earlier, when Pippa had become ill Jonathan had stopped writing altogether. When the doctors made a pessimistic diagnosis he had become her nurse: bringing her food; mopping up her vomit; renting her movies; spending afternoons talking to her. He had done everything he could because he had been terrified that she was going to die. He had been sure that their love had grown during her illness. He recalled Pippa whispering through lips coated with blood and mucus, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

What a hypocritical bitch! Enraged, Jonathan charged out of his study and leapt up the stairs. He stormed into the bedroom and, on seeing Pippa, flung himself at her. He went right through her, the wall, and sailed through the air until he ran out of momentum. He landed flat on the floor and when he opened his eyes he beheld a curved white surface. His eyes were just above a waterline. He realised where he was. He was in the bathroom and his head was in the toilet-bowl.

He rose immediately. His face was not wet but he still felt as though God, Lady Luck, or some equally qualified being was enjoying his plight. He should have known he could not affect Pippa physically. He looked down and realised he did not have a body any more. He was some sort of gaseous fog. But he remembered running up the stairs with legs?

As he thought of legs, suddenly he had legs.

“Oh, I get it,” Jonathan said aloud.

Jonathan concentrated and gradually the rest of the gas morphed into arms and a torso. He was curious how well he had recreated his face and looked in the mirror. He had no reflection.

Damn. I have to get used to the idea that I’m a ghost. And if I’m going to have revenge on Pippa, it won’t be in any conventional way. He thought for a few moments. I’ll haunt her until she goes insane.

He walked back into the bedroom and screamed, “Boo!” at the top of his voice. Pippa did not react. That clearly didn’t work.

Pippa was kneeling on the floor sifting through a pile of papers. What the hell is she doing? Jonathan wondered. He leaned forward and inspected the papers. They were his story drafts. “So, not only do you kill me but you’re going to desecrate my art. You heartless, flat-chested guttersnipe!” Unfortunately she could not hear this colourful insult.

Jonathan watched her in silence, attempting to figure out what she was doing. After a minute or two, she shouted in delight. “There you are!” Pippa reached forward but then stopped. She rose and walked to the bed. Jonathan leaned over the scattered papers and looked at what she had just found. It was a page from a story he had been writing a couple of weeks ago. It was not very good and he hadn’t submitted it to any magazines. He felt it needed a few re-writes. Pippa was the only person he had shown it to. He read from the top of the page.
“It is with great difficulty that I try to find the right words. I am writing this letter because my life us no longer worth living...” It dawned on Jonathan what she was doing.

Pippa returned with her hand wrapped by a pillow case. She picked up the note and then walked back down stairs. She put the note on his desk then she did something very strange. Earlier she had taken pains not to touch anything in the room. Now she invalidated her earlier efforts. Putting aside the pillow-case she began touching Jonathan’s corpse. She touched the neck then knelt in the blood. Finally, she walked to the telephone and dialled 911. When someone picked it up, Pippa proceeded to prove that the dramatic talent she had exhibited in high school performances of The Crucible had not faded. She launched into hysterics; gasping and screaming. “He’s dead! Oh my God! Please, help me! He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead...” This continued for an extended period after which Pippa told the police -- pausing repeatedly to scream and wail -- the address of their house. She then hung up, relaxed and smiled with self-satisfaction.

Jonathan’s mouth fell open in astonishment. What had triggered this? What could I have done to incite such savage retribution? Jonathan had cheated on Pippa two years earlier with a girl called Martha who was in a creative writing class he taught at Concordia University. It had initially been a purely flirtatious relationship but one evening it became more. After sleeping with Martha that one time he had broken it off and confessed to Pippa. He considered this as a motive for her murdering him. That couldn’t be it. That had been two years ago. Why would she have waited? He must have done something recently, but all his recent memories…

The doorbell rang.