She wants to kill me.

Last night I sat in the arm chair, my back rigid and aching as I peered through the lurid light. It was dusk outside and the sulphur glow from the flickering streetlight carved a path through the window. I was trying to work out why my water had a clouded appearance; perhaps the glass hadn't been rinsed free from the washing-up liquid or, a lump was growing in my throat, was it something else: anti-freeze, perhaps.
She told me she wanted to kill me. I'd assumed she was joking but a shiver ran down my spine just the same. She'd told me once before that she had had an idea to grind glass up and put it in someone's food, perhaps that had been a warning.
I was thirsty but I daren't take the drink. I glanced at the door, checking my exit, while keeping my attention on her. Her hair was meticulous, a golden hue of spirals that clung to her large shoulders, her wide mouth was drawn into a tight line as though she found something repulsive; I didn't have to have much imagination to wonder what, or rather who. She was watching the evening news bulletin but I noticed the way her cold shark-eyes stole glances at me that stabbed through the semi-darkness.
Cold mercury beads of sweat gathered on my forehead as I fought the urge to run: I had nowhere to run to. She could follow me anywhere. Perhaps that's why she sat there, letting the silence thicken; a sparrowhawk perched on a telegraph pole, waiting for the moment to make that dive of death. Or was she toying with me, like a cat with a mouse?
A little voice inside told me that I was suffering from paranoia, that if I followed my breathing, like in meditation, normality would return. But there was a louder voice, clawing at the inside of my skull trying to escape because I wouldn't. Run, it said, run away; be free. A reflex of self preservation.
The seconds trickled by. I gripped onto the arms of the chair and gritted my teeth. I wondered if the smell of fear would provoke the inevitable attack.
And then I heard footsteps outside. Socks on wooden floorboards, drawing closer. I turned to the door, I heard a tutting, and then a hand hovered over the light switch. I grimaced as the light forced the darkness aside. Gem popped her head around the door, her dark hair fell over her left eye and I watched as she brushed it aside with the back of her hand.
'What are you doing here, sitting in the dark?'
'Um, watching the news,' I said, my voice was an alien, strangled whine. I wanted to run to her then, let her arms gather the traces of my courage and pull me together.
'Are you okay?'
I looked over to where she had been sitting but she was gone. In her place was the reflection of the room on the window pane. I took in a deep breath as I look back to Gem. 'I'm fine, just a little tense.'
'You look as though you've seen a ghost!' Gem laughed. 'Want a cuppa tea?'
'I'd love one.' I smiled as Gem turned and headed for the kitchen.
Perhaps that is what she is, a ghost, and ghosts can't hurt you because they are dead. The reasoning seemed to calm me. I set about putting the experience aside but all the while I could feel her there, a scratch that begged to be itched. Perhaps she is a part of me somehow, a personification of the anger inside. She wants her freedom, I know that now, but I didn't know how serious she was.