It was two thirty in the morning and not a soul was in sight. The road was desolate, the only source of light coming from the few flickering street lights. Thunder rumbled on the horizon and a splatter of raindrops on his windshield made it nearly impossible to see the path ahead. He reached out to his side and tapped a button, instantly activating the wiper on his windshield, clearing his view of the road.

He was headed back home from somewhere he shouldn't have been. But none of that mattered in the end. He knew that no matter what, she knew where he'd been.

His phone began to ring and he glanced over to the passenger seat. Of course, it was her. His wife, the love of his life, had been calling him all night. He wanted to answer, but he was hesitant. He'd speak to her when he got home.

With a loud clap of thunder overhead, he directed his attention back to the road. Every time he did what he did, the weather seemed to turn bleak. Was it meant to remind him that his actions were wrong? Perhaps it was mocking him. A strange smile crept over his face regardless—he cared not. He had done what he felt he had to do.

As he drove, he passed a street sign that read, 'Couple'. He smiled; it was meant to be, as this was the street that lead to his and her home, the only house in the area.

When his car reached the driveway, he could see the curtain in the window of their home moving. She was awake, waiting for him. He chuckled to himself; he wondered if she would be crying or have that pitiful look in her eyes. He knew she would be surprised to see him walk up to the front door.

***
She had been pacing like a deranged lunatic in front of the telephone, hoping a call would come soon. A call that would inform her of the ill fate that befell him. But it never came. What came though, was the sound of a car's engine.

Wearing her faded flannel dress, she drew open the curtain just as his car parked in the drive. She had prayed that the storm she sent was enough to keep him out, but then again, who was she kidding? She watched with trepidation as he slowly descended from his car, strolled towards the car trunk, pulled out a big and long black bag then made his way to the front door. She knew she should move and open the door for him, but somehow, she found herself rooted in place—hands clutching the window curtain, eyes petrified and body shaking.

When the doorbell rang, that's when she awoke from her stupor. Slowly, she made her way to the front door. There was hesitancy in her strides—just as always. But whether she moved faster or slower, it meant nothing. It imposed nothing and would change nothing.

"Open the door, now!"

His command resonated like an angry mob. There was thunder in it. His voice carried a kind of dread that could easily send someone's heart into chaos. Especially hers.

With heavy limbs, she reached out for the latch and unlocked the door. It was raining cats and dogs outside so she wasn't surprised when his visage came into her view. His damp hair that had droplets of water on the tips, glistening skin, and water running down his leather jacket made her step back, not wanting her dress to get caught in any of the cascading water from his body.

"What took you so long?" He asked her.

She didn't respond. He didn't pry further. That was that. He stepped inside their house, hands gripping tightly on the big black bag slumped on his shoulders.

"Would you like something warm to drink," she asked him as he walked further inside their house.

He turned to her and then smiled. "Chicken noodle soup," he replied. Then after, he turned on his heel and continued on his way. Knowing him well enough, she knew where he was headed. The basement.

It hadn't taken her long to prepare what he asked for. It wasn't like she had to cook a proper meal. A sachet of ready-to-cook chicken noodle soup was all it took. He was never a picky eater anyway and so was she.

Meticulously, she poured the soup into his favorite bowl, brought it to the dining table, and carefully placed it atop a placemat. She then took out his favorite spoon. Yes, he has a favorite spoon. An old silver was that was handed down to him by his grandmother.

With measured movement, she placed the spoon beside the bowl and took a seat. Her eyes traveled over the floor and then extended beyond the kitchen furniture until they reached the door to the basement. Despite the rain and the occasional thunder. She heard the scuffle that she expected to hear.

Deep down she wished she was wrong. But there was no secret between them. He always knew. She always knew.

She shivered when she heard him scream and curse her from below their dwelling. She knew he'd force her to drink some type of pill again. He always made her drink that pill whenever he screamed like that. Then he would tie her up. He never physically assaulted her, but he would stare at her all night while she struggled with her bonds. He wouldn't say a word even if she screamed at him to explain. He would just stare.

She must have sat there for minutes before the basement door sprung open and out he stepped. His eyes were predatory and his lips were in a manic grin. Face... Face covered in sweat.

"I can't believe you did this," she murmured.

He scowled and answered, "The soup no longer has steam. Reheat it."

She made no effort to argue. She wanted answers to her question. But perhaps, he wasn't ready to give her one yet. But he would. He always did.

Eyes on his wake, she watched in silence as he briskly walked past her and headed for their bedroom. She knew he was about to take a shower so instead of heating the soup and reheating it again once he returned, she left the stove unlit.

Doubtful about how long he planned to stay in the shower. She suppressed the need that urged her to go down to the basement. She knew what she'd find there. She knew without him mouthing the words. Sighing, she leaned on the fridge beside her. What was she thinking? She should have been more careful. She never should have allowed herself get caught, again.

"I asked you to reheat the soup. I don't see any steam coming from it. Had your mind drifted somewhere again? Some place you believe I'd never find?"

His voice startled her. Swallowing the lump of saliva that pooled inside her mouth, she replied, "no," and then walked toward the table, took the bowl of soup, poured on a casserole, and reached for the switch. Instantly, their elective stove came alive, and soon, the soup started to boil. The smell of chicken with potato danced around their kitchen, glorifying the air around them in a homey scent. What a normal couple in a normal household they looked; if anyone had been there to witness it.

She brought the soup back to the dining table after deeming that it was ready. By then, he had already taken a seat. There were no words spoken between them as he took one spoon full and another. Over and over, the spoon traveled from the bowl to his lips. But curiously, his eyes were on her. They never left her.

Her gaze was pinned on him too. Just watching, measuring, and feeling the air between them.

As he took the last of his soup, he finally spoke. His words were garbled to her ear the first time he said them, so she asked, "What was that?"

"I said, what were you thinking? Hadn't you learned your lesson the first time? Why did you repeat something that would only end in disaster?"

She took a deep breath. He knew the answer to that. They never needed to explain each other's actions thoroughly. However, whenever she committed the so-called mistake, he would demand that she spoke more than three sentences to him. She knew why. It was to embarrass her. Obviously. "Why do you even have to ask, Mikhail? You know why I did it."

"Sara, we've been through this before. How many times do I have to remind you that what you're doing will only cause us pain."

"You took care of it, didn't you?" She asked, hoping to shift their conversation elsewhere. But when he frowned and slammed his spoon on the table, she knew there was no weaseling her way out of the confrontation.

She took another deep breath and ran a hand over her hair, fingers lacing over silky smooth ebony locks. "I wanted to do it. I needed to do it. You're not supposed to be here. Im not supposed to be here," she whispered.

He shook his head, eyes boring into hers. If his midnight irises could shoot daggers, she'd be dead. "That doesn't justify what you did, my love."

"My love," she mimicked. A chuckle escaped her mouth as she stood from her chair. Her feet guided her toward the door to the basement. With a pitch that rivaled the thunder above them, she yelled, "There were ways to have handled a situation like that, Mikhail. One day, you'd get yourself in trouble."

"You'd love that, won't you? If I, one day cease to return after trips like the one I made earlier, you'd probably rejoice. Don't be so cruel my love."

"My love. My love. Those two words sounded more like a curse than an endearment. It felt like he only said those to patronize her, make her do whatever he wanted, and submit to all his desires. Sure, she'd happily do them. If only he was worth it. He told her once that she used to see him worthy, but at that time she couldn't tell. How could she when she couldn't even... She shook her head.

"You spend the majority of time swaying, Mikhail. Am I not allowed to have fun while you're gone while doing that ridiculous job of yours? It was for fun, you know."

He failed to respond in the first thirty seconds. That silence seemed to have agitated his wife. However, he couldn't voice the words bouncing inside his head. It would hurt her for sure. But then again, it was his choice to have kept her with him even when the doctors said her disease would eventually escalate.

"You kept me here against my will, Mikhail. Was it wrong of me to beg for help or try to find a way to free myself?"

No. No one was ever wrong to ask for help when they were truly in danger. But his wife never was, never is, and never will be. He couldn't tell the same for him though. Every time she hired a hitman to end his life, he would have to fight tooth and nail. He was smart enough to have listened to his compadre when he said to install a CCTV camera and have their telephone tapped. Those were the things that aided him. There were times when she'd luckily contact a professional hitman which caused him a run for his money and life. But the majority of the time, she'd only find a bunch of yahoos—like the one he had just disposed of; which to him was always godsent.

"I want you to set me free you asshole!" She screamed as she pounded her fist on the basement door.

Mikhail knew it was one of those nights. He would have to sedate her. He rose from his chair and went to get her meds in the kitchen drawer. She must have known what he planned because before he could reach for the medicine bottle, she ran toward the front door.

Instantly, he was in her wake. He caught her arms seconds before she reached for the doorknob. As always, she struggled against him. And as always, he managed to overpower her.

He dragged her toward their bedroom, threw her on the bed, and despite the number of punches his face received from her knuckles, he managed to strap both her arms on the bedpost.

"Monster! Let me go you monster!" Her angry voice and the fact that she believed she was angry with him. That he was a threat to her shattered further his already broken heart.

It was three years ago when the doctors diagnosed his wife with schizophrenia. He couldn't tell why she deluded herself into believing that he had kidnapped her and married him against her will. She believes that he was someone that must die. He didn't have the heart to leave her in a psychiatric ward because there were days when she was okay and he feared that if he kept her in the care of other people—even if they claimed to be professionals—her illness would escalate.

He left their bedroom and returned a minute later will a pill and a glass of water. Slowly, he sat beside her on the bed. She was still struggling and fighting against him when he pried her mouth open, but when he whistled a romantic tune—one he knew weirdly calmed her down—she steeled. He took that opportunity to carefully slip the pill into her mouth. She didn't fight him. She allowed that pill to slide down her throat and even allowed him to tilt her head up to be able to drink the water he got for her.

When everything was done, he left her alone and returned to the basement. There the corpse of the man she sent to kill him lay silent with blood dripping from the hole on his head caused by the bullet he fired from his rifle.

Sighing to himself, he started to dig. A year ago, he converted the ground of their basement into a cemetery for those he killed. He couldn't risk leaving a corpse by the side of the road or even hurrying them somewhere. He couldn't. He feared that someone might track it back to him, to them, and that would have a catastrophic ending.

How long can he keep it up, he asked himself as he poured dirt on the body of a man who must have had a family somewhere.

The answer was not complicated. Forever. As long as he was breathing, he'd keep doing it. As long she needed him, he'd be there.

Their dangerous dance would continue until one of them is dead. That was the promise he gave her, every time she was lucid and managed to remember that they were in fact truly in love with each other and had been married for thirty-eight years.

Those who knew of their situation called him crazy. But for him, when you love someone, you love them, even if they were a ticking time bomb that could explode any second. Even if their sole purpose at the moment is to end their life. What he has for his wife is unconditional love. She never wanted to separate from him when she was free of her disease. She would hate him in heaven if he abandoned her inside an institution. He would hate himself for leaving her, and truth be told, he'd never survive without having her beside him.

He went to shower again when he was done with his task in the basement. He then joined his wife on their king-size bed, wrapped an arm around her, and wondered, had she contacted anyone that night? Would he have to take another life the following day?