by Sierra Graham

Created on: April 23, 2008

Suki cried softly into her hands. Hands that were covered in blood and now was smeared across her face, covered her body in the rich acidic smell of the life liquid.

She had loved Jack so much, and hated him almost as much. But did that excuse her actions? How could she have done what she did? How could she have let him aggravate her to this extreme? She'd know he could bring out the worst in her, was this really her worst? Murderer?

Who the hell was she now that she'd committed this act? This strange woman, crying because she'd killed the man she loved most or was she the same woman she was when she'd gotten out of bed this morning? Would God now open the gates of Heaven to strike her dead and watch, laughing, as he sent her to the pits of Hell?

When she picked up the small kitchen knife, all she wanted to do was shut him up, even if it turned out to be permanently. A hysterical laugh erupted from her throat. Well, dead men didn't talk, did they?

And what happened to the women that killed them?

A Maximum Security Women's Prison, where a woman nick-named Butch would make you regret every dishonest thing you'd done since birth.

Hell well, there was no need to think of that one. Hell made the Women's Prison seem like a vacation.

Or worse a guilty conscience that made one place both and ten times more unbearable.

She couldn't go to prison. Hell was one place she couldn't control, but prison she could.

What on earth could she possibly say to the police that would convince them that she hadn't intended to kill Jack? That he was damn annoying and didn't know when to shut up? That after fifteen years, she'd finally reached her limit and forced him to shut up? Rational thought hadn't entered her brain once during their arguments. It never had. She'd slowly seen her sanity decline with each fight. Each time she got more and more aggressive and violent. But she'd never even raised her voice in anger at another person. Only Jack. It had been like she was another person when he was around. She was more passionate. About everything. The good things and the bad.

That wouldn't work. They'd still lock her up and throw away the key.

Just a mere two feet from Jack, she stood and paced as her brain accessed the facts and possibilities. The only sounds were her labored breathing, her footsteps silenced by the thick carpeting.

She could go to the cops. Admit what she'd done and spend the rest of her life behind bars. But that really wasn't an option. Besides, what would that accomplish? She

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