As she angrily pulled the old brown suitcase off the top of the wardrobe, she was barely managing to contain her temper. In fact, she took pleasure from the scraping sound the case made, happily picturing the damage it was doing to his pine furniture.

As the weight of the suitcase caused her to let go of it clumsily, she felt disappointed that it merely landed on the bed with a plop, instead of continuing its flight and knocking the lamp off his bedside table. After all, he deserved it.

She tugged the stubborn zipper and laid the case wide open. It was all too symbolic. She too felt exposed, open, empty. She perched on the edge of the bed and hugged her pillow to her face, hiding her tears - from whom, she wasn't sure. She was alone; there was no-one else there. He had left for now, giving her time to pack her things, giving her space to think. Too much space, she realised. The emptiness and stillness around her was frightening, the space closing in on her, restricting her breath.

She wiped her face dry with the pillow and stood up. She had a task to do. It had to be done. Things would be easier then. This was the hardest part.

She began to remove clothes from the wardrobe, folding them neatly and placing them carefully. She made sure she only selected the things that still fitted and she knew she would wear. She could always collect the rest later. For now, she wanted to just fill the suitcase, enough clothes to last her for a while.

She started packaging again with a renewed energy. By the time she was sorting out her T-shirt drawer, she was rolling them up and stuffing them into corners, not caring about them needing to be ironed later.

As her distress receded, it was being replaced with fear. She remembered his eyes. That strange, disturbing look he'd had just before he attacked her. He had looked different, not like the man she had married all those years ago. He had seemed uncontrollable, almost possessed.

She pulled out her underwear drawer and tipped it upside down, the assortment of bras and knickers raining on top of the other clothes, as if tossed there by a violent storm.

Her heartbeat quickening irrationally, she slammed the suitcase lid down and fumbled for the zip. It was at this stage that she had stopped before. She had never actually left, only ever packed. Then he would turn up, all hearts and flowers and tears, remorse, apologies. This time would be different. This would be her fresh start, her new life. She was a survivor. She would cope.

She ran down the stairs, avoiding the hole in the carpet from years of practice, a skill she would not need in the flat she had found. It had no carpets at all, but she didn't mind. It would only be a stop-gap, a pause on the way to a happier, freer existence.

She slammed the door behind her, threw the keys on the mat and walked towards her car. She put her arm out towards the door when she was grabbed from behind.

She was shaking and felt sick. But when she looked up at him, his eyes were kind, his manner loving. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, like he used to. As she relaxed into his body, once more reassured and forgiving, she saw only his chest and felt only his love and warmth. She didn't see the change in his eyes or the glint of the knife as it plunged into her skin.