The front door opened quietly and a man stepped into the room. He paused to listen, watching as she lay sleeping on the bed, exhausted from an evening of sorrow.
He did not feel bad about the arguments. This was life, shitty as hell, and he did not care for the weak. He was strong. He had made some limited success as a pimp and was not going to let some deranged junkie take him down with her.
He did not turn on the light - there was no need - and made his way to the bed where she lay breathing gently. He watched her for another moment, perhaps stirred by some stray tenderness, but then leaned over, reaching for a pillow. She stirred, whimpering softly. He placed the pillow firmly over her face, causing her to struggle violently for air. She was however no match for him and her futile protests gradually faded.
He waited a minute to be sure, then whistled softly to his waiting companion waiting outside the front door.
Had the old man in the flat below been awake he might have heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs outside his door, but he was not, dreaming instead of long, windy walks on the Broads with a panting black Labrador by his side.
