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When he gasped for air for the last time, she imagined a knife in her hand and that the phlegm in his lungs was gurgled blood.
"You son of a bitch," she smiled, making sure this scowl was the last thing he'd ever seen.
You killed me, she read in his slowly glassing over eyes. No need for lenses this time.
It turned out so easy, a double murder, practically.
She fell on the floor and started crying. Alerted by the noise, a nurse came into the room.
"It'll be alright," she said, patting Nicole's shoulder. "He's in a better place."
Oh how Nicole wished he had already burnt to the crisp in Hell.
And she wasn't crying for him.
Christina, Christina, Christina. She never knew it was Nicole's plan all along – maybe, with some luck, she obviously couldn't rely on the possibility of pneumonia in advance, and had to devise several other options instead.
Men are stupid, she had laughed inside while he had been putting his ugly signature on his new will – every centime to her, a woman who just betrayed her best friend and the love of her life (he didn't know that, though). She could see the crinkly new bills, so many of them, a price for her soul.
It's hers now, the money and the painful regrets and the repressed lust for revenge that she could never get. No matter how painful his death would be, it would never be enough.
She stood, smoking, at the edge of a bridge across the Seine, and, having finished the pack, simply stepped off.
She would never see Christina, would never see the light she turned into when she came to Heaven, but she couldn't take seeing anything else any more.