'Not hungry, honey?' She waits, watching the untouched pasta begin to cool. No answer. Of course he wouldn't answer, she thought to herself. After all, you did just stick a kitchen knife into his chest. She toys with the idea of handfeeding him his dinner, make him play along with the act, but she wants to eat first. Got to think about this on a full stomach, she thinks. She idly plays with her pasta for a while before deciding she isn't hungry after all, maybe the blood on her hands had something to do with that. She makes her way to the sink to wash her hands, almost tripping over the body on the floor. Goddammit, cow, learn to walk, she thinks, twisting the tap. The water is cold; they stopped being able to afford hot water two years ago (she had left her job once he moved in, all she needed was him). It stung as it came into contact with her skin; it was more than cold, it was freezing. She watched as the sticky blood turned the water bright pink, a whirlpool of cotton-candy spinning, falling, dancing down the sink. How had it come to this? Did she really love him? Yes, she thought to herself, thinking about the past four years she had spent with him, I do love him. I love him more than anything else in the world. Oh, Gemma, how could you not love him? He was gorgeous, handsome, friendly - except he wasn't always very friendly, was he? She looks down and her arms (her hands still burning in the cold of the water, but never mind that, she thinks, the pain is good, it means you're still alive) where there are red scars, and memories of Alan and his temper, his terrible temper, sometimes he got carried away. But she knows that he never meant it, not really, not from his heart. Because he loved her. She glances down to the body on the floor where already a pool of blood (it's wine, she tells herself) is spreading, hot and thick (it's wine it's okay I spilt it there just wine) and she realizes that she should clean up soon. It's a shame, she thinks, I really believed that this would work out, that it would last, we love each other, right, honey? She goes to get a mop, but stops, she doesn't have the energy to do much just now. So she sits once more in front of her pasta, and has a second attempt at eating. She manages a couple if mouthfuls this time before vomiting, turning her head away from the table and spraying it to the ground where it mingled with the blood (red wine Chavalier fine aged 1980 wine what a waste what a waste of wine) creating a foul maroon which contrasted terribly with the white tiles. Alan always hated it when she vomited. He would watch as she scrubbed and scrubbed, and only when there wasn't even the faintest smell there on the ground would he let her stop. Once she had vomited on the table, and that got him into a temper. A nasty one. Almost unconsciously she feels her left cheek, she can feel the scar, she can feel the pain (he doesn't mean it honey love you honey). It was her fault really, she should have turned away, to the floor. Then all she would have to do is scrub, scrub, scrub. She doesn't know when or how she got there, but she's on her knees and cleaning up the mess. I'm a good cleaner, she tells herself, and do what you do best. She knows that now Alan is gone (dead you killed him remember with a 9 inch knife remember honey? doesn't mean it love you darling killed him remember) she doesn't need to keep cleaning but the smell was making her sick, and she didn't want to vomit again. The cloth in her hand soaks up all the - knock knock, honey. She gasps and sits up. Knock knock knock (how can they know) knock knock (they can't know) knock (they've come to get you honey you spilt wine 1980 Chevalier wine such a waste). 'Gemma? It's Phoebe. Are you in there?' Knock knock (they'll see but they can't see they mustn't). 'Gemma? I heard... Loud noises. Are you alright in there?' She drops the cloth (foul color doesn't go well with white I should choose a different wallpaper how about the yellow nice contrast) and says 'Yes... I'm fine.' (You don't sound fine honey they'll hear) 'You don't sound fine, Gemma. Listen, can you please open the door I'm really worried about you (see darling they know) Gemma (they can't know) open up please...' She looks around for anything, anything she can do 'Coming, just wat a moment.' But she's not coming (knock knock time's up who's there time's up who?) she doesn't know what to do (do something, clumsy cow, filthy pig woman clean up your mess doesn't mean it honey love you spilt wine such a waste knock knock you killed him remember terrible color 1980 killed him they can't know about Alan they'll take him take me away killed him doesn't mean it killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed killed killed killed

The door opens. Visible relief on Phoebe's face. 'Gemma, you look such a mess! What happened?'

They can't know.

They must never know.

'Ge-'

Clean up your mess, woman.

Such a waste.

Three bottles of wine gone in one night.