I knew it the first time when we were making love. The way he placed his callused hands around my long frail neck. Even though he quickly released them, I could see him playing out the scenario in his mind, and the certain vacancy I saw in his eyes scared me that next time he wouldn't be able to let go.

It was the first time I really saw it, the darkness, I mean. He was so good at playing the part, delivering all the right lines. He knew the formula to a woman's heart, he loved the challenge. He would transform into the person that the woman wanted and he wanted to see how good he could get at it. It ranged from being a poet, a dancer, a musician, an artist, an athlete. He would always lose himself in the women he pursued. He took on their persona or basically the persona of what they wanted in a man. It was an art that he was exceptionally good at. He was a chameleon of sorts and that prevented him from showing people who he really was. So many times he reinvented himself and so many times he convinced others that he really was that person. I believe I was the only woman who really saw through him ? maybe that's why I'm still here.

I'll admit, the first time I heard it broadcast, I was in denial. However; there was a part of me that knew it. She was beautiful. So young and full of life. She was me 20 years ago, still trying to figure out the world, still believing that people were innately good-natured and just misunderstood. Little did she know that ultimately that would be her downfall.

I'd rationalize it in my mind. He worked and traveled a lot. Sometimes when he'd call me he was in a dark place. I could feel it, no matter how hard he tried to act like everything was alright. When I pressed him, he just said he was tired and overworked. Then when he came back, he was happy and romantic and animated and full of life. I told myself he must have missed me, and I believed it.

I just wanted a nice, quiet, peaceful life and that's what I had with him. Growing up I never had that. Every evening there was constant arguing, screaming and crying. I never wanted that kind of life. My father would always find some fault in my mother and was so quick to get angry. My mother would always fight back physically and I couldn't understand why they were still together. It's mainly because of this that I never wanted to get married. When he came into my life, he was the opposite of everything I ever knew.

I never once saw him angry. Everybody deemed that a blessing. On paper, it was a perfect life. I should have been fulfilled. After all, it was what I wanted. But I only landed up feeling empty inside. It was the same emptiness I often saw in his eyes, no matter how much he'd smile, or flatter me, or shower me with gifts. It never really went away. There was something devoid of life in him.

The second time, I saw it in the newspaper at work. Another strangling. I could feel it, his hands around my neck. Then I saw her, the girl in the paper. I was her fighting for my life. Feeling him pressing in so close that I began to have trouble breathing. So much so that before I knew it my coworkers were hovering around me in panic, asking "Is everything okay?" I quickly dismissed it and said that it was an asthma attack.

I'd have to get up several times, splash water on my face and say everything was alright. I had everything I needed. He gave me that. I kept telling myself. Why disturb the peace? Plus, I had no solid proof, even though I knew deep down inside that I was right.

After a long day at work, and my neck and shoulders wound up tightly from the tension or replaying various scenarios in my head, I came home. His car was already parked in the driveway. I stayed in my car for a while. I couldn't bring myself to get out of the car and pretend everything was alright. I kept seeing the young woman inside my head. I kept reliving her suffering over and over again as though I deserved it.

I finally convinced myself that I wasn't worried, and tried to preoccupy myself with what I was going to make for dinner. After the way I felt, I definitely didn't have the strength or energy to cook anything elaborate. My anxiety stifled any creativity or inspiration I might have had.

As I walked in the doorway, an inviting aroma hovered through the hallway and into the kitchen where classical music was playing softly in the background, and two glasses of wine sat perfectly symmetrical on a candlelight table with our finest china and silverware. He looked up from cooking, and gave me a sweet grin. It was the same grin when he first met me a few years ago at the local brewhouse. He asked if he could buy me a drink and I looked directly at his mouth and not his eyes. I should have looked at his eyes. I must admit, I did the same thing tonight. He knew how to disarm me. He always did.

As I got in, he rushed to me. Sat me down at the table, massaged my shoulders and kissed my neck. He always knew I couldn't resist that. It's as though he studied me and knew exactly how to pass the final exam. He always did. After a while, I had forgotten why I was apprehensive in the first place. He cooked the steak just how I liked it and he kept pouring the wine, and everything was perfect until I made the mistake of looking up. Then I saw them. His dead eyes. At that point, it didn't matter what came out of his mouth. I couldn't hear it, partially because I knew it wasn't the truth.

Maybe it was the wine, or the truth in his eyes, but I interrupted his words about something that really didn't mean anything at all. It was just the same white noise that always fills the room.

"Did you read the paper today?" I asked.

"Ugh, no I haven't," he said a little startled, this time avoiding eye contact.

He grabbed my empty plate to place in the sink.

"You should've," I said.

"Uh, really," he said with nervous laughter. "Why is that?"

Then I suddenly changed my mind. Was I really prepared for what may ensue next?

I could feel him looking through me and determining if my next move would be my final one. I quickly retracted my thinking.

"It's just important to stay informed, that's all," I said.

"I find it too depressing," he stated as he let go of his intense eye contact. "Why do you want to fill your head with all that stuff?"

"You're right," I said. "Let me help you with that."

"I got it," he said. "Just get some rest, you're probably exhausted. I'll join you soon. Let me just finish up here."

He took about an hour to come up and I knew he wasn't taking that long to do the dishes. As I heard him slowly walking up the stairs, I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. I could feel him looking me over. Even though my eyes were closed, I could feel his eyes treading up and down my body, looking for false moves, regrets or any trace of suspicion. Fortunately for me, I was an expert at sleep imitation. I knew how to breathe to fake a deep sleep. I used to do it all the time, growing up when my mother would sneak into my room to see if I could hear my father and her arguing. I felt his eyes paying particular attention to my neck. I tried not to gulp or do anything that would leave him suspect. I knew what he was contemplating, I felt it. And I prayed for any telltale signs to stay repressed inside my body. No beads of sweat, twitches, tingling, heavy breathing, or wimpers.

Did I out-master the master or did he just have pity on me? I couldn't really tell. Next thing I know I heard soft footsteps walking down the stairs, the door closing in the quietest way that if I gulped or flinched, I wouldn't have heard it. I heard the engine of his car quietly pull away. I opened my eyes and began to tremble uncontrollably.

I must have managed to get some sleep because when I woke up, I felt him lying next to me. "Morning, sleepyhead," he smiled.

Don't look at his eyes. Don't look at his eyes. "Morning," I yawned.

"I came up last night but you were already sound asleep."

"Oh," I laughed nervously. "It was probably the wine."

"It must have been," he smiled again.

"What did you do?"

He looked at me puzzled

"I mean what did you do when you saw I was asleep? I mean, you should have woke me."

"No, he said. You looked too peaceful."

I thought he had forgotten my initial question, and I was secretly disappointed.

He knew I was waiting.

"I just went downstairs and watched some TV," he said.

So he did admit to going downstairs, and I did hear him. Maybe it wasn't the door at all, or the car engine. Maybe it was just the television, and in my paranoia I associated it with him leaving.

As I got up to go to work, he said he was going to sleep in. He was tossing and turning all night. His meeting wasn't until later that day.

I believe him. I believe him. I kept telling myself. As I walked downstairs, I saw his slippers by the television and saw the couch pillows ruffled.

I smiled to myself. I am just being paranoid. I have always been self-deprecating and must believe that I don't deserve to be happy.

I left the house, it must have rained that night because the ground was damp and there were small dew drops on the leaves of my bushes.

As I left, the keys dropped out of my hand. As I looked down, I noticed fresh mud on his tires. I believe him, I kept saying to myself.

That weekend was like a dream. He took me out to the beach and we stayed in a condo nearby. I began to truly believe that I could be happy. I began to forget my intuition.

He went to the bathroom to take a shower, he asked me to join but I enjoyed sleeping in. He took a little longer than usual, so I turned on the television.

Another body was found. They believed it was a waitress at a local bar. She left on Thursday and closed the bar along with the bartender who recalls her heading to her car after their last customer. He said the dirt parking lot was very muddy that night because of the heavy rain. He asked her if she needed any help getting her car out of the parking lot. She said she was in her boyfriend's Jeep and she would be fine. When the manager came in the next day, he noticed her Jeep was still there. Her body was found by the lake last night with abrasions to her neck.

I heard the shower turn off and quickly turned off the news. He came into the room, after towel-drying himself.

"Everything alright?" He said. Did he know something? Did he hear the television? "You seem startled," he said.

"I just realized that this is our last day and I don't want it to end," I said.

I didn't want him to see my eyes, because, like his, mine told the truth. I didn't want him to see through me.

He looked at me for a while. I had to act quickly.

"Make love to me, " I told him.

A sociopath is a sociopath, but a man in a man.

He just stood there as though he was trying to figure me out.

"Fuck me," I shouted.

He threw me on the bed and I knew he was holding back. I knew what he was capable of. Don't look at his eyes, I kept telling myself. I closed my eyes, faking climax.

And he was content in pleasuring me.

Afterward, I told him I had to go to the restroom. While in there, I yelled out that I was going to take a shower quickly to avoid him wanting to join me. When I turned on the shower faucet, I let it all go. A flood of tears came gushing out of my eyes as I couldn't decipher which drops came from the spout and which came from me. I put my fist in my mouth to stop myself from screaming out loud. I scrubbed my body profusely to feel clean and absolved, but I couldn't. I rubbed and rubbed again but I couldn't scrub off the guilt.

I knew the longer I was in there, the more suspicious he would be. I came out of the shower and smiled at him. This time making eye contact.

"I'm really hungry," I told him.

"Get dressed and let's go get something to eat."

I had to think fast.

"If I get dressed then we can't have any more fun," I said, smiling seductively. "I think I saw a cafe nearby."

"You want me to go," he said. "What do you want?

"Surprise me," I smiled and "Hurry back to me."

He closed the door and I had a decision to make. Right then and there. There was no time to think about it. Even though I had the best weekend of my life, that didn't change the fact that someone had lost theirs. And although everything was okay on the surface. My conscience was unclean and would never be absolved.

Just as these thoughts were permeating through my mind, I received a text.

It was him. I opened it.

"I love you" it said.

My thoughts suddenly stopped. I believed he truly did, love me, that is. At least as best as he was capable. I was alive after all. But was it enough? Was it worth ignoring all morality and ethicality? I knew what I had to do. I entered 9-1 on my keypad.

I thought about it all. His hands around my neck, the young women, our love making, his vacant eyes, our weekend escape, my childhood and the constant arguing. The thoughts grew louder and louder inside my head. I knew my decision would impact me and others for the rest of my life. It was a moral decision that I had to make right then and there.

I looked at the 9-1 on my screen for a while.

And then I did it. I did what I thought I could not do...

I deleted the number.

I went back to his message.

I texted back, "I love you too."

I put the phone down, sat back, smiled and closed my eyes.