She lies motionless on the bed beside me, the gleaming planes and curves of her body a pale beacon in the gathering twilight. The movement of her breath is slight, her breasts barely moving with the ebb and flow of the internal tide.

The air is heavy with the musk of sex, the thick scent almost smothering the fainter thread of blood.

Panic rises in me, and I reach out to wake her, to lose myself in her embrace. I hesitate; my trembling fingers feel the warmth radiating from her flesh. The darkness has grown deeper, and in the corner by the bookshelf, there is movement.

Primal instincts close my eyes—and immediately open them again. The internal night is darker than any external shadow, his presence stronger.

The shadows ripple, suggesting the curve of a hunched shoulder, the outflung bones of a splayed, grasping hand. The twisted shadows of his face lift as he scents the air. He smiles, teeth gleaming. The scent of blood grows stronger, and he moves towards her.

Something breaks in me, and the fear that held me immobile vanishes. I leap up and circle around to stand between the shadow and my beloved; my teeth bared in a snarl. Without conscious thought, I reach for a box of matches from the bedside table and strike one.

The shadow unravels as light flickers into the corner. With a shaking hand, I touch the match to the wick of the bedside candle; the flame catches with a sputtering sigh. The scent of vanilla rises in the air, imitating the fragrance of the skin at the base of her neck. The candle and its twin on the opposite table were presents from her—wards against the darkness, she had called them, though I had never revealed my fear of the night. I never wanted her to see the shadow, never wanted anything but light for her.

I feel his presence before I see him, looming on the far side of the bed, tangled shadow fingers clawing for her. Without hesitation, I circle the bed to light the twin candle, the combined light of the two flames fill the room.

I exhale, unaware I had been holding my breath, and ease myself down on the edge of the bed. Her skin glows in the warm light, pure and innocent. I want to curl myself around her, lose myself in her, let the light of her banish the shadows—within and without—for all time. For a moment, wrapped in candlelight and vanilla, I almost believe I can. I reach out to her, but again, my hand stops short of touching her, the heavy scent of blood rising around me. It fills my sinuses; I can taste it, rising to choke me.

I know then that it’s inevitable. I close my eyes, sensing the remaining patches of darkness—under the bed—behind the furniture. Even in bright sunlight, there is always a shadow. He will always come back.

But he is bound to me. Only I can see him, only I can sense him.

I open my eyes and allow myself one last look at her, desperate to memorise the delicate lines of her face, the innocent abandon of her slumber.

I know what I must do. He is my shadow self … he cannot live if I do not.

It is my turn to smile. I carefully open the drawer of the bedside cabinet. Within lie a few pitiful objects—a battered notebook, every page blank, an old ballpoint pen tucked into the leaves; an empty pack of cigarettes; a lighter. But it’s the last object that I draw out and cradle in the palm of my hand, cold against my skin.

The cutthroat razor was also from her, though she had never explained the compulsion behind the gift. But I understood now. Like the candles, it was a ward against the darkness.

I flick open the razor and then pinch out the flame of the closest candle, leaving the other burning, just in case.

He is there again, a tangled mass of shadows rising before me. I throw him a mock salute before pressing the razor to the inside of my wrist. Blood wells, black in the dim light, and I press deeper until the trickle becomes a flood. I press the razor into my other wrist with difficulty, the handle slick with blood, but I eventually make enough cuts to let the blood flow.

I always believed that dying would be painful, but all I feel is a stab of regret—for the years I would miss … for the torment this will cause her.

I welcome the darkness eating the edges of my vision and the chill settling into my limbs, for these things are freedom—and safety for her. The shadow looms above me, trailing dark fingers over my flesh, his features blurring and twisting. He leans close to me, fetid breath washing over my face, and he smiles, a feral cast to his features. I see my own eyes looking back at me, my own mouth bared in a death’s head grin.

The darkness is absolute.