1

Samantha had planned the perfect Halloween-themed bachelorette party for her friend, Kara.

She’d meticulously ironed out every detail. The nightclub. The restaurant. The food. Everything was in place.

It was all a welcome diversion. Seeing as the last year had been a living hell.

And that hell was due entirely to one person. Her ex-boyfriend, Colin.

2

They’d had a rocky relationship, Samantha and Colin. But it wasn’t always like that. He’d been so charming when they met. That rainy afternoon when she’d lifted her gaze from her phone, stepped forward and literally bumped into him in line, at the front counter of that cute little café next to the modern art gallery. Little could she have guessed the charming, handsome stranger had a rollercoaster of moods, that he must have been bipolar or borderline. Maybe both...

When she met him, though, he was so cute and fun. He was a joker, a clown, a lovable goofball. Witty and full of laughs.

A professional artist by trade, he was a protean painter, spending most of his time in his home studio, painting these immaculate murals of mountains, the sea.

Oh, and he’d paint her too. As an angel. He’d summon a numinous force, a touch of God in his brush. Seriously. It was almost as if, at least to her, he was better than Di Vinci.

He’d be so enraptured in his art. The way he’d stand, wide-eyed at his easel, mesmerized, moving his whole body in concert with his brush, producing such jaw-dropping, lifelike portraits of her - usually portraits of her in the nude- renderings of her as a Greek goddess with fluttering, silky white wings and wavy black hair bouncing over her shoulders. Her feminine curves and contours, her creamy skin, the hourglass shape of her body portrayed to a heavenly perfection; in a way she’d never imagined possible.

Sweeping the brush, with rhythmic grace, he seemingly had a power as strong as the ocean. She’d blush red, posing and turning for him, smiling coyly, herself feeling as if she really was an angel, if only for that moment... Her heart melting, knees weakening when he’d whisper, repeatedly, from behind the easel, just how “exquisite, beautiful she is…”

If he wasn’t painting, he’d be adorably eccentric, a lovable madman, dancing in his bedroom, playing air guitar, cranking classic rock (often AC/DC). Or he’d be shuffling feverishly about the house, a million miles an hour, cooking piles of pancakes, quoting Hemingway, and writing lists on his phone, planning daring trips to every part of the globe. Planning to try extreme sports, wild activities. African safaris, skydiving, lion taming, scuba-diving, parasailing, paragliding, bungee jumping. He’d even mentioned wanting to wrestle alligators! It was as if there was nothing he wouldn’t try…

3

But then there was his other extreme, which, horrifically, she’d soon discover. His crash. His plummet. When he’d be down. And when he was down, it was rock bottom. He’d be irritable. Aloof. Hiding in bed, under a bubble of covers, catatonic, talking to no one, doing nothing. Going for days not touching his phone or even leaving the house. Pissing in empty Gatorade bottles he’d keep next to his bed.

And that was the best she could hope for when he was down. Often, he’d be worse. Like when he’d start fights, arguments over nothing.

He’d get so angry. One minute he’d be fine, everything going swimmingly. And then, POW! He’d explode. Like a bomb. Over nothing she’d done intentionally. It could be just how she crossed her legs in a restaurant. The tone of a text message. The choice of a song or brand of milk.

Really, any perceived slight he might regard as a mortal wound. Anything could make him flip out and start explosive arguments that she always feared would become physical. But they never did. He’d never lay a hand on her, never resort to violence.

Still, though, in her mind, the possibility existed that he could. It was the serial killer look that’d flicker in his sharp blue eyes. The way he’d scream at the top of his lungs, the guttural sound of his straining voice, his curly red fascist haircut flopping and moving like flames atop his skull as his lanky body jolted with rage.

Following a friendly joke she’d cracked about him liking Ed Sheeran, he’d blown his lid, jumped up from the couch and threw a glass at the wall, shattering it. Aghast, her expression twisted to one of fixed terror. And she sat curling to the corner of the couch, fearing that next time it’d be her thrown at the wall, her spine splintering and cracking into pieces like the poor Picasso painting glass he’d just jumped up and flung with the fucking power of a baseball pitcher.

(The whole incident, too, really made her hate that “Shape of You” song even more, and in a whole new way…)

4

Eventually, they’d always make up after their fights, have a romp in bed, return to calm, civility. He’d apologize profusely to her. His eyes wet and his kind voice sweet as candy, ricocheting like a windchime in her ear.

When they’d fight over the phone, he’d later send her apologetic texts with loads of emojis, shower her with compliments and show up to her doorstep with a bouquet of roses, endearingly jutting out his bottom lip. Then he’d take her to a fancy French restaurant and ply her with wine and delicacies. Afterward, they’d Uber to his house, retire for the evening and let their full stomachs weigh them down onto the bed.

In bed, they’d lay supine, on satin sheets, in a tacit silence, staring into each other’s eyes. Then they’d cavort under his heavy down feather blankets, before cuddling and kissing for hours. Everything would be bliss for at least a day or two- until his mood crashed again and the arguments resumed.

5

Finally, enough was enough. Samantha had tired of his cycles. She’d seen Kara and Kara’s fiancé; how happy they were. Sure, the two had fights, but nothing like Samantha and Colin.

Samantha, at Kara’s urging, decided to give Colin an ultimatum. Get mental help, get in therapy, get on the right meds, or they’d have to split up.

Colin didn’t take well to Samantha’s request. He took it personally. As an insult. Accused her of cheating on him, trying to find a way out of their relationship.

Samantha, while sitting next to Kara, in Kara’s tiny apartment, sniffled and cried on the phone as Colin berated her. Kara, her pink hair in a tight bun, knitted her brows, and looped an arm over Samantha’s shoulder, leaned in and listened to Colin’s cursing, his shrieking voice, and then whispered to Samantha that they should call the police.

Samantha pursed her lips. Shook her head. She didn’t need the cops. She could handle this herself. And so she drew in a deep breath and summoned the courage to end things, knowing Colin needed far greater help than she could offer. Like Kara had said, Samantha knew Colin would have to sort out his issues before he could have a successful relationship with her. Or anyone.

After telling Colin this, he yelled even louder, and for the first time, threatened to kill her. But she simply hung up. Then collapsed into Kara’s arms, burst into a fit of hot tears.

But, later that dark, windy night, Samantha’s sadness shifted to fright and her stomach churned.

She worried Colin would call back. Maybe show up to her apartment, with the most malevolent of intentions...

6

Eerily, though, she heard nothing from him. She worried he’d taken it too hard. Maybe had killed himself.

But then she remembered his guttural, sibilant screaming, how he’d threatened to kill her. And she started to become increasingly panicked.

What if he was serious? What if he showed up to her workplace, to her apartment?

Worse yet, he was rich. Not super-rich, but wealthy. A trust fund kid with ample financial resources. Aside from painting and going to art galleries, traveling, he didn’t do much, so he had plenty of time and plenty of money to attack her. Or hire someone to do the job.

She started to picture that. She’d read an article online about Dark Web sites offering “life-ruining services”, for-hire services selling stuff like disfigurements, e.g. throwing acid at someone’s face, or beating someone with a blunt object and paralyzing or otherwise maiming them; or grapple-fucking or murdering them; or even just spreading online rumors, sending fake or real nude pictures to porn sites; hacking into someone’s Twitter or Facebook and posting outlandish tirades; stealing their identity, driving them into debt, all sorts of nastiness. Colin could easily pay for that…

Or he could hire a mob guy or a cartel killer, a professional killer. Just thinking about that made Samantha peer out her living room window, terrified that there was a masked man, hiding in an adjacent building, a sniper, perhaps, who’d shoot her from afar, kill her like Kennedy.

But it didn’t have to be done with gunfire. A hitman could possibly poison her. She’d read about that in a thriller novel. A pro-hitman could easily disguise himself as a policeman or repairman, gain entry to her apartment and lace her food with cyanide or anthrax.

Or he could be following her, to and from work, mapping her movements. He could be anyone. Anyone among the knots of people. He could be some inconspicuous bald guy in a business suit, walking briskly by her on a bustling subway, jabbing her in the small of her back with a syringe and she drops dead on the spot and the whole thing looks like a heart attack.

Or a former IRA operative, a killer rigging her apartment with a bomb. Like one of those bombs that could be triggered by opening the fridge or turning on the stove. After thinking of that one, she only ate takeout for a few days, checked all her appliances.

Her mind racing at night, she slept less and less. She could see any of those scenarios. She could see Colin, polishing a gun in his palatial bedroom. Colin, with his strong jaw set, staring with his evil eyes of shit at the nude paintings of her on his walls. Him throwing darts at her portraits. Him concocting all sorts of dastardly schemes to make her suffer.