The main character was dead.

All in all, it had been rather unsatisfying. She would have rather taken a blade, perhaps something nice and dramatic out of the kitchen, tied the two of them down and made them pay for making her feel so…obsolete. An old model to be shunted to the side and then picked up again when the new one was playing up. Her hands shook at the thought. It was so cliché, so cheesy, but her hands did shake when she felt intense emotions. Rage, fear, distress…it brought on the shakes. As if she were simply a character and this had been given to her, from the blessed author, as an idiosyncrasy.

Ha, a character. That would explain a few things. She wasn’t the main, that was for sure. The main character lay dead in his own kitchen, right in front of her, his lover propped up beside him. She took a sip from her own cup of tea, pondering the lax faces. Main characters weren’t meant to die, were they? That would throw quite the spanner in the works, unless the author was attempting some fancy ‘revenge from beyond the grave’ recital. Life wasn’t feeling like a horror movie at the moment though. It had been too calm, this death, and there was a notable lack of gore. Unsatisfying. Perhaps, then, they were in a detective novel. She was studying those at university right now, so it was a possibility. The jealous girlfriend knocks off her partner and his lover. Quite plausible. Now she just needed the detective with the drinking problem, or problems with his partner, or some other endearing issue to come knocking on her door. She’d play it cool, feigning sorrow, shock and anger at finding out her boyfriend was not only dead, but having another relationship on the side. She’d offer any information she could, but would appear blameless, with a full alibi, until a few chapters later when some crucial bit of evidence came up.

No, that didn’t sound like fun. She could always plead temporary insanity, spurned on by jealousy of course, in court, but poisoning wasn’t exactly a spur of the moment thing. No, it wouldn’t do to be in a detective novel; she didn’t feel like getting caught.

Standing, feeling the chilled tiles beneath her feet, she walked past the bodies and to the sink. The water ran icy against her already blue fingernails as she rinsed her cup. If her lover had not been the main character, and they were not in a detective novel – she had decided that they weren’t, simply because she said so – then what did that leave? Many genres, actually, but none really fit the current situation. A CSI episode was always possible, but the characters in those shows were always such caricatures. The pretty one, the gruff one, the one with an overly keen sense of justice. Blah, boring. People weren’t that predictable, unfortunately. She’d certainly predicted wrong.

Frozen fingers picked up a washing glove, using that to move her dishes to the draining rack. The water drained and she stepped back, taking a deep breath. It was time to get home, while it was still dark outside so no-one would see her. The lights in the house were off, so she was relatively safe. It was strange…she’d always been afraid of the dark. Zombies and vampires lurked there, when she was younger, and in more recent years it had been robbers and rapists. It wasn’t a fear of death, more a fear of pain that had plagued her. Strange. Standing here, in the dark, she no longer felt any fear of the shadows surrounding her. She’d transcended the boundary from victim to killer in under two hours. She’d become what she’d feared.

Oh, cliché after cliché was spilling tonight. How droll, what a perfectly good show! She chuckled lowly, gripping the sodden glove in her hand and using its yellow finger to caress her boyfriend’s cheek. “Oh, I loved you, you stupid man. I did warn you I wouldn’t share.”

Heaven hath no fury like a woman scorned. Heaven could not possibly imagine it. Still, as she locked the door from the inside and shut it after her, she felt her anger abate into a tranquil sort of satisfaction. Well, how about that; it may have been less bloody, but poison had done its job in the end. The glove was shoved into a pocket to be burned later, and her hairnet followed it, letting her hair fly free now that she was back in the street.

The story had no main character now. No. That was a lie. She smirked, ready to fall into yet another cliché. It was she that was the main character now.

AN: Writen in twenty minutes, and mostly done to get a lot of negative feelings out before going to Yum Cha with my friends. I'd rather not go into the reasons.

Oh yes, it's probably not really horror...but I couldn't really see another genre that matched it. Sorry.

Un-betaed and written while rather...