As a child would in a lucky dip, Paige gropes around deep down inside of herself, but only to come up surprisingly empty. She's lanced all emotion with the act of bludgeoning Henry to death.
The damn fool had walked into the mallet almost before she'd caught herself swinging it.
She probably had meant to do it, Lord knows, she'd certainly fantasised about it often enough, but it still came as a bit of a surprise when it actually played out that way.
Mind you, her surprise paled into a tiny, wee, small blip, on the measurement scale of caught-off-guardedness, compared to the complete and massive shock which must've greeted Henry. He'd literally just walked in through the door and wallop, there his nose up and disappeared.
The second blow had him staggering backwards in a drunken parody of the Quick-Step, catching him up against the sink, and splattering a curved arc of blood and bone across the ceiling. It was the third one that probably did for him, throwing him sideways to the floor as it had, and the fourth, fifth and twentieth were now, upon reflection, probably overkill, but at the time Paige had wanted to be thorough.
Now she felt quite certain he was completely dead. Just goes to show what a tragic waste of time, all this eternal fretting over getting old can turn out to be. And as for the vanity, humph, no amount of preening in the world looked ever likely to put that head back together again.
Sitting in the eerie aftermath, Paige stares for a while at the puddle of gore by her heel, noting bits of grayish flotsam speckling the crimson - pieces of Henry's brain. Paige wonders which part of him it recently controlled - perhaps the womanising, or possibly his sarcasm - maybe that particular globule dictated the mean streak? All moot of course, since most of what is left of Henry and his dubious personality, are now only strewn pieces of blood and tissue.
Carefully avoiding the piece of counter-top stuck with goo-of-Henry, Paige pulls herself upright by the overhead work-surface, and blinks, focusing on the reeking quagmire spread before her. The stench is unexpected, and makes her gag.
He's made an awful mess.
Still, it's hardly his fault. It is the last time she'll be cleaning up after him, and at least he'd had the good grace to be dispatched in the kitchen. Most of the surfaces should scrub down clean, and she notes even the spanking new Venetian blinds might still be salvaged with a little extra effort.
Her head throbbing and sinuses aching, she feels so bone-weary tired, all she wants to do is to curl up into a tight ball and close her eyes, but a sharp, inner voice, that of survival, is savagely shrieking at her to get moving, and to set about what needs to be done.
Her eye falls to Henry, lying slouched on his side, up against the cooker, and reality glumly rears it's unwelcome head. Before setting the kitchen to rights, she has to settle the awkward question of What The Fuck To do With Henry first.
She thinks it probably best just to take him to the tip, but how the hell will she ever manage to cart him up there? The bastard never could stick to a diet.
Fortunately, good under pressure, Paige's mind races to the dog-ramp for the car-boot, and links it to the garden trolley.
She heads off in search of sack-cloth and twine.