PART THREE

Weekends were always the worst. Vernon had nowhere to go and neither did Petunia. Dudley left the house at every opportunity (he was staying at another friend's house tonight; he did so at every opportunity), so they were left all alone together.

The day started like any other, only a few hours later than usual. Petunia woke up at around 10 o'clock and immediately made her way to the kitchen as though she was on a prison-like regime, boiling enough water to make two cups of coffee. As expected Vernon made his way down the stairs after a few minutes, his breakfast almost done. Vernon slumped into his regular chair waiting expectantly for his meal. Petunia expected him to at least attempt to make conversation with her – there was no morning paper, the television was off and the silence in the house was like that of a library, only condensed into a smaller space. Still, Vernon didn't make a sound, adopting his usual "silent and broody" mood, sitting into the chair and staring at the damp spot on the wall facing him. Petunia could almost hear his thoughts, his anger at the imperfection obvious from his eyes (she'd always found it easy to read him). Still, there was no violent explosion from him, not even a disapproving grunt. It was odd for him to be so silent, especially when there was a problem with their house. Perhaps it was because he was tired, he had only just woken up after all. Or perhaps it was because he just didn't care anymore, like all of his passion for everything had just gone…

Vernon ate his breakfast quickly and was soon back into the living room, where he now spent most of the time. The rest of the day was uneventful; Petunia busied herself in the garden so as to stay out of Vernon's way whilst he lay on the couch watching the horse racing on channel 4, occasionally calling for her to bring him a sandwich or a drink. Other than that they didn't speak until Petunia started making his dinner.

And that's when everything went wrong.

Petunia made spaghetti Bolognese every Saturday; it was one of those things that she just did out of habit without knowing why. It was fairly simple to make but she needed to keep a constant watch over the food which left her stuck in the kitchen whilst it cooked. As was the case every Saturday, Vernon ate his food in the living room on the same couch that he had been on all day; by Saturday evening Vernon and the couch looked as though they had merged into one big grey organism that just lay there uselessly. Petunia brought his food to him as she always did. It should have been an easy task, but on that night life decided to be crueller than it had been for the last 3 months.

There was a tear in the carpet; not a large one, not an easy to see one, but one big enough to trip Petunia up. For a moment Petunia literally felt as though the world had ended; the food went flying, leaping onto the nearby wall. Petunia followed, banging her head on the hard plaster and falling to the ground. The whole eorld went fuzzy; she could barely see, she could just about hear Vernon's voice blaring at her, the anger and hatred evident, every repressed feeling that he'd felt coming out, and all Petunia could feel was her tears slowly falling down her face.

She was snapped out of this senseless zone of near-consciousness by a heavy blow to her left cheek. Or was it right? She opened her eyes slowly, her first blurred image being that of Vernon's face; bloated, red and screaming with rage. She could barely make out what he was saying, his words fuzzy and incomprehensible in her ears. She didn't know what he was saying, she only knew that she wanted it to stop.

"STOP SHOUTING!" she screeched, immediately regretting her careless words. Vernon was stunned into silence for one, blissful, moment, before his venting continued. She was scared, more scared than she'd ever been, and that was saying something. But this was a different kind of fear – not one of Death Eaters, or Dementors or wizards. This was new. A fear that Vernon might hurt her. A fear that he might hurt someone else. A fear that this rage may never end.

What happened next was beyond Petunia's control.

She couldn't stop him, she couldn't control him, and she certainly couldn't keep living like this. This was breaking point. This was where she took her life into her own hands. This was where she took his life into her hands.

She barged past him and into the kitchen. He kept shouting to her, but she wouldn't listen. She couldn't listen. She couldn't focus on anything other than getting the knife. She yanked it out of the sink, almost slipping on the few drops that had come out with it, and ran into the living room, her only intention to get Vernon to stop shouting. Without thinking, without a trace of hesitation, she jammed the knife into his stomach. It stopped him from shouting, that was for sure.

Petunia pulled the knife out of her husband's stomach, her hands shaking, her throat dry. He looked into her eyes for one moment – she could see the emotions flash on his face; shock, anger, fear, sorrow, then nothing. He was gone.

The knife fell from Petunia's hand, blood splattering onto the white carpet. She could do nothing but stare at the body that lay before he, not sure if she was pleased or petrified. What had she done? More importantly, what came next? A life in prison, her head forever populated with thoguhts of grief and guilt. She couldn't do it.

Her last act in life was to write a letter. It was short – her hand was shaking and her head was fuzzy, even the right words that she found she could barely right. The letter was meant for whoever found them – it was an explanation of what she'd done that night, an apology for what she'd done in her life and a record of Petunia's guilt and sorrow.

Kneeling down beside her husband, the man that she had spent 20 wonderful years with, Petunia sliced the blade across her stomach. She was dead within 2 minutes.