I wrote this for a school assignment, and, considering it is literally a fanfiction, I decided to post it so I am now eligble to be an official beta.

Now, for ye old lucky ones to have been spared having to read Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier (it took me six or seven tries to read it through), if you're ever planning on reading the book, spoiler-free, don't read this.

So this happens before the book starts, this guy called Maxim is murdering his wife, Rebecca. She's beautiful, and talented, but he hates her because she 'doesn't love anyone' and has six or seven affairs. She's just told him she's pregnant with Favell (this guy Maxim hates, and also Rebecca's cousin, so it's incest)'s baby. This means that, since they don't have any kids, this boy, who isn't even his, will inherit everything once he dies, including his property, 'Manderley', which he likes a hell of a lot more than he likes Rebecca.

Whoa. Sounds like an episode of Neighbours or something, huh? Oh, and it's kind of set in early 20th century England. Well, actually, I don't know. They have telephones.

And she stood there, with that little smile on her face.
She knew she'd won.
For once and for all, she'd won. What could I do? Her little son would grow up and old in Manderley, my beloved Manderley, with not a drop of de Winter blood running through his veins. He would look like her, with a nose or mouth or eyes like Favell's, a beautiful and charming boy, with a thousand girls pining over him in the village.

The thought of it was enough to make one sick.
There was only one thing for me to do.
My hand rose at my side, of its own accord, the gun clenched in my fist.
My thumb released the safety catch, slowly, surely.

And there she was, smiling her winners' smile, as my finger pulled the trigger.
She didn't drop to the floor, clutching at her chest with one last gurgled breath as expected. She stood there, for a moment, with a crimson stain, curiously like the rhododendrons she had planted down the drive, spreading across her chest. Her shirt wasn't white now; it was dark, dark red, with a small round hole above her heart. And then slowly, so very slowly, she keeled over, the smile of a winner still fixed in place.

Then, Rebecca was no more.

She lay on the floor like that, her dark, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling as a pool of blood spread from beneath her. Yet she smiled still, as though she had won.
I stood there, for a moment or two, like a statue, for I could not believe what I had done. I could not feel or hear or see anything other than Rebecca's two staring dead eyes and a single triumphant thought chanting through my mind, 'Rebecca is gone.'

I knew this was wrong. I knew I should not feel like I am the victor, I should be shocked and horrified; I should go and turn myself into the police this instant.
But somehow, along the way, Rebecca had blurred the lines between what was right and wrong, good and evil.
I no longer knew, for sure, what was right.
Was it such a sin kill, in protection of another? Surely, that is a valid excuse for murder, but not when the one protected is merely a house, with its plot of land. No, I would be sentenced to death, by the noose, most likely, were this ever to reach the ears of the Court of Law.

I must hide her body. Dispose of it, where it will never be found.
Should I bury her? Or, perhaps, burn the evidence? But surely I will be discovered by the time I have lit a bonfire, or dug a hole deep enough to hide the body.
No, I must take out her boat, and sink it. It will look like a boating accident, a life taken by the cruel claw of the sea. No-one need ever suspect me of foul play.

The carpet of the cottage was drenched in her blood, crimson and bright.
I walked down to the water's edge, with a bucket, and filled it to the brim.
It took me seven or more trips, back and forth, back and forth, to clear all that blood, as the sponge in my hand grew redder and redder. It was entirely dark by the time I had cleaned all the blood from that carpet.
Her body still lay there, queer-looking, and pale, like a ghost. I lifted her, blood dripping from her body, over my shoulder.
I prayed Ben was not about.

How ironic it was, that her boat was called Je Reviens. I come back. Only this boat never would.
I rowed out, on the dinghy, and the night was the darkest I'd ever seen. Not even the stars shone, obscured, as they were, by a thick blanket of black cloud. The sail would not hoist properly, and I could not see it very well, for it was so dark.
I did the best I could, but it got stuck half-way. I realised too late that the wind was blowing the wrong way, and I was trapped in the cove.

The boat was edging towards the rocks, and I knew I had to act quickly.
Her body was in the cabin, and I drove a spike into the floor, once, twice, three times. Water rose from the holes, more quickly than I expected.
I ran from the cabin, bolting the door and fleeing the sinking boat on her little dinghy.

And I never looked back.