Of course, Heather was twisted. Everybody knew this except Gene, so of course he was the only one who ever professed his love to her. Except Heather wanted to leave him for just this reason; who would act unabashedly and intentionally weird if she did not want to be loved for it? Heather, certainly, wanted to be loved for who she was.

The two of them were watching TV. Good-natured, his loopy grin a chipper wave at the world, Gene turned to Heather and said, "Darling, I will make you a sandwich! Stay put, don't move a finger." She looked up with a scowl. He turned around right before reaching the door and said, "Now don't you move! I knew you were going to move." He rolled his eyes and his expression said, "I crack myself up."

She could take no more of this. Get me out, her brain screamed. With a mad glint in her eye, she looked at her small kitten curled up beneath the coffee table as if she were a parcel of meat. Ah, perfect, Heather thought.

"There, there," she cooed as she scooped up the kitten with one quick movement of her hand and gently, ever so gently, placed her onto the sofa. Before Gene came in, she slipped a pillow on top of the kitten so nobody could notice her small, fragile frame.

Gene returned to the living room, with pair of bologna sandwiches in hand. Handing one to Heather, he sat down and both of them -- one with a vapid smile and one with horrified eyes open like saucepans -- a quick, swift crrrrrnch of bones.

"OH MY GOD," Gene screamed. "Oh my god," Heather mimicked with little enthusiasm. I have to do better than that, she decided.

"OH MY GOD," she screamed. "I hate you! You killed Mr. Fluffles! You KILLED her!"

Gene stuttered through an incomprehensible apology, wringing his hands like a Warner Brothers cartoon character. "I can't do this anymore, Gene. I'm done. I can't live with a killer." His eyes pleaded, all at once absolutely desperate, helpless, and panicked. He had no more words.

Heather was free.