For like ten thousands hours, he was stabbing me. That’s what it felt like. He took a break and now I can’t move.
Was it ten thousand hours? Maybe just a minute, and I can’t move and I hear the flick-flick-flick of a cigarette lighter coming to life. The smell of that first exhalation.
Truth is, I don’t know how long it’s been.
I don’t know who he is.
Walk in my house, feel someone push me against the far wall, hear the door slam, and I feel hot and wet almost instantaneously. Look down, my shirt’s soaked in dark red, hot blood and now, here we are.
I don’t know why I can’t move.
Nothing hurts.
My eyes, I can’t close them.
On the ground, he pinned me down and all I saw was the knife in his hand making a terrible arc - up and down and up - and like red rain.
She didn’t say she was married.
Did she?
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