If there was one thing that Helen had to concede about Madeline, it was that she was a damn good actress.
That didn't always show, since she had been the star of so many bad movies, and since her bitchy personality always reared its ugly head. However, she only needed the right setting, and she gave it all to the performance.
Helen remembered fondly the days she had spent on her couch, eating cookie dough and replaying the scene where Madeline's character died, and replaying it, and replaying it, and replaying it again and again and again until the buttons on the TV remote were broken by her incessant obsession for the images.
The fantasy paled, however, when compared to the reality. How she had love smacking the bitch with the shovel, how she had loved seeing her head being bashed around and hearing her neck crack!
Still. She never had had the opportunity to do what she really dreamed of.
Light filtered through the cracked open door, and Helen held her breath. She knew she couldn't prepare herself enough for the thrill she was about to experience.
Silent as a shadow, she slipped in the bedroom, her eyes focused on her old friend's figure in front of her vanity. The mirror was crammed with photos, prospectus for discontinued shows and magazine articles, all of them about the actress, blocking Helen's reflection from Madeline's view.
The blonde was applying make-up to her left eye. Helen could just imagine the air of deep concentration on her face.
The author breathed slowly in-and-out to remain calm as she moved towards Madeline.
The air smelled of expensive perfume, of make-up powder and of spray paint. Helen's eyes darted to the window, and she asked herself not for the first time when was the last time it had been open. The closed curtains gave to the room an intimacy that was further enhanced by the dim lamps, covered in pale shawls.
As Helen approached, she felt her breath come short, her hands twisting the white piece of fabric she had meticulously chosen; it could withstand great traction and felt coarse in her fine hands.
A step, then another, and carefully, she drew closer to Madeline.
The woman lifted her eyes to her, an expression of surprise on her face.
"Wha-"
But it was already too late. In one, quick move, Helen had wrapped the piece of rough fabric around her throat, and she began to wrung and pull and twist, her eyes never trailing off Madeline's reflection.
The redhead stood behind Madeline, so she could not directly look at her in the eyes. She was in a position of power over her old frenemy, and having the actress look at her with desperation through the mirror was good but…
As she wrenched the cloth harder, the sound of Madeline's choking music to her ears, she realised it was not enough. She wanted her own hands on her skin, to feel the flesh against her palm, to be able to see directly into her eyes as the light went out.
She released Madeline who gasped painfully for air, but Helen hadn't finish yet.
She pulled the chair on which Madeline was sitting, on elaborate designed thing that probably cost as much as the apartment she had to rent alone after Ernest left her.
Madeline let a moan of discomfort escape when her back hit the floor, unable to even move as Helen straddled her, marvelling in their new position. She was on top of her, leaning on the small woman with her own weight, preventing her from escaping her or breathing correctly. The writer was finally in complete control – she was literally the one on top.
Helen's hands found themselves on Madeline's neck and she pressed, hard, her thumbs diving in her windpipe. Her skin was cold, but Helen could feel the flesh fitting perfectly in her palms, as if her neck had been made for this moment.
Madeline struggled faintly, partly knocked out by her earlier assault. Her face was distorting with the pain she was experiencing.
Helen was so intently concentrating her gaze on her old friend's face, watching the air leave her lungs and the life extinguishing in her eyes that she hadn't even notice the large smile that was distorting her own lips.
Madeline's eyes were fluttering – and for once it wasn't in any flirty way to steal Helen's men. The actresses' rosy lips were so akin to those of a fish in this moment as she kept gasping, that Helen only barely repressed her laugh.
Finally, the struggling became weaker and weaker, until Helen was compressing the neck of a limp body.
She stayed on the corpse of Madeline for a few more seconds, her own breath irregular with the excitation that had flooded her blood.
That was probably the best experience she ever had. The flickering worry about her mental state came and went out as quickly in the back of her mind. She already knew she had problems; she had been in a mental hospital after all. That never prevented her to do anything however. If Helen had chosen to still care about the littlest things like morals, then she would never have achieved this very moment, this apotheosis.
She observed the slackness in her friend's face, the way her eyes seemed so empty and the unfinished make-up that had been smeared across her cheek sometime during the struggle.
Madeline really was a good actress.
Her head snapped back up and she stared hard into Helen's eyes.
"Now that I indulged in your little fantasy, will you please –" she spat the word, "- spray my back?"
Helen sighed. Of course, she had to ruin it all with her bitchiness and her inability to die.