This is the concluding part of the three-part fictional prose:
Everyday he thinks of ways to slay her. There are too many ways and too less time.
Should he slit her throat? Stab her at the back? Strangle her with a pillow? Or just stare her to death?
He’s often tried the latter. Been successful too. But she doesn’t die. She refuses to. Or perhaps, she carefully plans not to.
Why does he want to kill her?
Does he even need a reason? It’s not a question of want anymore. It’s a necessity. A requirement.
She’ll die tonight. He knows she will.
And he placed the gun on his forehead and pulled the trigger.
Concluded
