“You know I don’t enjoy doing this, right?” he whispers into my ear. I stand slowly and look at him, at his deadpan expression. Chapped lips set in a straight line against a 5 o’clock shadow. Disapproving eyes wandering over me. Hands fidgeting, anticipating, ready to beat the life out of me yet again.
I don’t exactly know what made me crack that day, but if I had to take a guess, it would be the way he said it. Like he truly didn’t enjoy this. Like beating the spirit out of me wasn’t what he lived for. Like he isn’t amused that every day I dread his arrival in my own home.
I feel a low pressure in my belly build and something in my spine snaps. My vision turns red as I see a knife glinting in the distance. Before I can begin to regret my decision I grab the knife and plunge it into his throat. It sinks in with a sickening thunk. Tendrils of red spurt from his neck as his eyes go wide. I get lost in his coffee colored eyes, which, for a split second are filled with shock and what looks like betrayal. I sink into myself, trying to find a morsel of regret or guilt or even pity, yet I come back up empty.
Empty. As he sinks to the floor and I pull the knife out. Empty. As I walk over to the sink and rinse off the knife. Empty. As I feel his blood quickly drying around my lips, eyes, and ears. Empty. As I trip over my feet through the hallway and swing the door wide open on its hinges. Empty. As I stumble out the cabin and toss the knife into a pile of bushes. Empty. As I drag the back of my hand across my face, wipe away blood and stagger into the darkness.