Murder dripped from my mind as a dark and unctuous treacle; it coated me in death.
And so it was I stole upon her unawares, my once love, my once life. She combed her long, raven hair with the brush I had bought her when first we met, a trinket to me, rather more to her. Here I watched from the shadows of an unlit hallway. Here my spite grew bestial.
I launched myself upon her with the vicious confidence only fear could manifest. Exactly ten years to the night, on Halloween, to be exact, I would end the turmoil of our love. My fingers closed about her throat, a sick adulation shining from my eyes.
She did not die. She would not die. The mirror as always stood empty and silent.
I’d married a witch, my fault, my lapse. I’d married a witch, and I sought to end it. As ever, she refused. She tossed me aside like a rag doll. I crumpled. She laughed.
“Maybe next year,” she sneered.
She could be sure I’d try.