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At her latest threat, his heart ceased beating. But he's still not sure he planned to murder her.
He doesn't know what happened exactly, just remembers the overwhelming necessity of making it stop. God, he has to make it stop. He has a sudden flash of how glorious it would feel to wrap his fingers around her neck, squeezing until she stops breathing. Stops dragging his sweet, perfect Anna down into this madness fueled hell. Stops staining her perfection.
It proves much simpler to stir arsenic into the sugar.
He changes tactics after she struck him, remembering his mum's saying about catching flies, and suggests they have a cuppa and try to work this out like adults. He appeals to the feelings they once shared. Turns on the charm. Makes a pot of tea, sits with her in his mother's sitting room and watches her stir sugar into her cup. One spoonful. Two.
When she mentions feeling unwell he excuses himself to go for the doctor. Waits outside until he hears her body slump to the floor.
He's always suspected himself capable of such things. And for years the knowledge of this darkness, this passion he's desperately tried to temper was enough for him to push himself away from Anna, to protect her from his demons. But years of denial have weakened his resolve and she is now that which he cannot live without. Will not live without. He must have her. Alone, he will cease to exist.
He knows Anna feels this way as well. Feels it to his bones. And there is nothing he will deny her. Not anymore.
Nothing.
He owes Anna his life. She is his life.
He feels his heart start beating again.
Get to the train station. Go home. Find Anna. Breathe.
It's done.