My body trembles with trepidation. I wail out in utter despair—but no one hears me. My heart, now frenzied with fear, beats madly against my chest. I am enclosed—there is no escape! The barricade is behind me, and he is before me. Through the light of the dim street light I can see him approaching. His luminous eyes are gazing at me stoically, and his knife reflects the light of the lamppost. His heavy steps tap over the empty, cobblestone street as he draws ever nearer. I am vulnerable against his strength—I can not escape him!
      Feebly, I call out his name.
      The clomping of his footsteps cease. His large, blood-thirsty eyes disappear and I no longer see the  blade of that cursed knife. Could it be that he is gone? Did he vanish as an evil spirit, or does he still lurk in the ebony darkness of the night?
     I whisper his name.
     Silence.
     I scream his name.
     But the silence runs on like a haunting melody.
     Have I any choice but to deem he is vanished? Could it be that my eyes deceive me—or better yet, that I have based all my suspicions on fancies? Alas, the truth is still lucid. My husband seeks to murder me—and he waits in the shadows of the night with his fatal weapon to do the bloody job.
     The minutes run together until at last they are hours. The night fades slowly away—yet still, I see nor hear nothing of him. Then, from the shadow, he appears again. The tap of his shoes returns to my ears—louder and louder! He is next to me, staring down at me with impassiveness on his vulgar face. My throat goes dry, my breath is stolen away, and my hands shake wildly. I can neither speak nor faint—only stand there, paralyzed by the fear that consumes me.
      He speaks to me slowly. His words run together in my mind, but I catch the phrase, “You know what I did. . . !” And then his hand rises into the air. The knife is in his grip, and he holds it so tightly that his knuckles become wan. He drops his hand—the knife pierces my heart. I feel myself falling, gasping as my body hits the cobblestone street. I can feel the crimson blood pumping from my chest; the life is racing from my body. But through my pain, I can see him as he runs away and disappears in the shadows of the street. The years of suspicion is no longer a mystery—the truth is at last made clear to me. At last I know what my husband is . . . what he did!
      The throbbing pain of the knife in my chest quite suddenly dulls. Walls of blackness are closing in around me as I slip quietly into death. I can still hear the faint tapping of his shoes against the cobblestone .  . .