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?