I light up a smoke and watch the shadows dance around me in the stairwell. I have analysed myself many times before, so I'm in no particular mood to do it again, but my mind always wanders where I will it not to. I have very little self control. I can hear myself saying, "My behaviours are always derived from two things:

1. Self obsession and

2. Fear of humiliation"

Above me, I can hear the catch on a door opening, and I know it is my husband looking for me. I hear his familiar footsteps darting out onto the concrete and I count chewing gum dots and graffiti tags in time to them. I live in a shithole.

"And why do you think your behaviours are derived from these things, Dana?" My shrink would say. I would never go to a shrink, ever; that would be like admitting your behaviours are wrong, like admitting that you are screwed up and should get chucked into a nuthouse. I would never want that. Just a week in one of those places would dislodge you for life.

"I think I'm self obsessed because everything revolves around me. If anything happens, it is because of me. If anyone cries, I've upset them. If anyone laughs, they are laughing at me. If there is traffic on the motorway, it is God trying to get back at me..." I would reply, baring my soul, and she'd probably try to interrupt me, "why would God be getting back at you?". Stupid bitch. Like she could understand. My husband is closer now, only just around the corner and I can hear his footsteps quicken.

"Dana?" He calls, and his voice echoes up the entire block of flats. I love his voice late at night, it gets gravelly with drink and sleep. Sexy. He descends around the corner and sees me with my back to him, sitting against the wall and smoking.

"Dana?" He crouches down in front of me, holding my hands in his palms and gazing into my eyes, trying to find a light in them. There is only blankness. "What are you doing, my love? You are freezing." He looks at the pig-patterned pyjamas I have on and rubs my arms, trying to warm them. "Come back to bed."

But I don't want to go back to bed. I hate it. Lying there, on opposite edges of the bed with miles of cold and ice between us. My eyes staring up into the shadows on the ceiling, trying to find answers, and his eyes closed and dreaming of some other woman, maybe, who is prettier and better than I am. Sometimes I wonder if he even notices the distance in between us, if he cares. But I don't want to speak first, I don't want to ask him. I just want to leave.

"Dana, come on. It's 3 am. We both have work in the morning. Let's just get some sleep, shall we?" The tone in his voice is changing, becoming challenging. He hates work as much as I do. He hates living with me as much as I hate living with him. He wants everything to be so easy and convenient and it's not, because he has chosen me to be with and I make it complicated. I can't help it. My eyes look at things differently, my mind interprets everything into something it's not. And I hate living here, in this crappy block of flats with the central heating system that doesn't work and the kids with knives on the street corners. I've had enough. I want out.

"I'm going back to bed now honey, and I think you should do the same. Come on." He stands up and I find myself standing up too.

"See, there we go. Ok?" He says, managing to patronise me with every syllable of a sentence that is just there to fill silence. I don't say anything and he tries to put his arm around me.

I am suddenly filled with such rage that my blood boils and my eyes see red - how dare he patronise me? How dare he come downstairs and look me up and down disapprovingly while I'm in my pyjamas? How dare he think that I am below him? How dare he lie beside me at night and not notice the wall that has built between us? My head is filled with arguments that I can never say to him, that my lips block before I can even start. I wish I could tell him the truth, I wish I could be honest but I hate him to know what I'm thinking.

The rage curls in my stubby fingers and narrows my eyes. My mind goes black and fills with anger and next thing I know, he is not standing beside me anymore.

He is about 10 foot below me, his legs askew on the stairs and a pool of liquid is oozing from his head and matting his lovely soft hair. A terrible, terrible feeling of dread fills me and I stub out the smoke and run.

AN: One Shot or a story? I can't decide! What do you think? Any feedback? Thanks x