Plunge.

It started with one of those instant message doodads. She couldn't remember the name.

But it popped up, innocently enough, chiming on the computer. She took a quick glance. And her heart stopped cold.

That cheating, lying bastard!

This thought remained in her brain as she drove the chef's knife into her boyfriend's back.

It did help that he was asleep, of course. A moving target would have been a lot harder to pin down. Literally.

It would have been, should have been, pretty simple. That's it. She aimed for his heart and lungs. They couldn't say that she was heartless. She wanted to spare him a long, drawn out death. Guessed she still loved him, after all.

But as the tip of the knife didn't slide in between ribs like a hot knife through butter, but instead glanced off a rib, the present emotion of a calm, calculated plunging arc of death evolved into a frenzied, repeated thrusting.

At one point during her furious murder of her boyfriend, he had somehow managed to turn in the now swamp of a bed that they shared and the knife, slick with blood, sweat, and tears, now slipped, like a contact lens onto a naked eyeball, gently upwards to pierce his heart.

He gurgled - and blood cascaded from his soaked lips. He smiled sadly, accepting his fate/destiny/guilt as his eyes closed and he sighed a breath of relief.

At least you're mine, she smiled. No one can have you but me.

And she curled up on his chest, breathed in the coppery scent of his life, and went to sleep.