Many times my mother told me: ‘Do not run around with scissors.’ Well, this isn’t a scissor, this is a knife.
And yes, I’m running. Running and painting the floor with the tiny red drops of warm liquid that drip from my hand.
I stabbed him. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t what I thought would happen. We argued, we always did. I had a knife with me, I always did.
Maybe he is not dead. I stop. What if I didn’t kill him and then he’ll call for help and the police will come and he’ll say it was me.
Not that they’d find any motives. Or could they? No, no, impossible. Everybody knows I’m a…clean? Well-kept? Normal? A person, yes, but…
Oh God, I can see it now: Mayor’s daughter stabs boyfriend, flees the scene. Damn! Dad will kill me for sure. What was I thinking?
Oh yeah, I know what I was thinking. I was thinking that the little bastard wanted to dump me. And no one dumps me.
The dumpster! Yes, yes, like in the movies. I’ll go back, throw him in the dumpster, go to the police and report him as missing.
My tongue feels cold against my lips again, yes, that will do, the dumpster will do. Now I run back, I should clean this knife and hide it.
No evidence. The traces of blood on the floor? There is a storm coming in today, the rain will wash it away.
No one will doubt on me, I’m the mayor’s daughter. I’m innocent, I’m kindhearted, I’m amiable… I’m fucked! Where the hell did he go?
The alley is the same, the pool of blood is there, I can still hear the echo of his voice whispering for mercy. But…he…is…not…there.
A police siren? No, ice cream truck. Daddy always bought me ice cream, actually, he bought me anything I wanted. Where did this bastard go?
Hard, stiff, pressure, slowly penetrates, cold then warm. I am on my knees, repainting the pool of blood under me.
He leans over me, drops of his blood tapping on my cheek. ‘You can have a knife, but it’s another thing to know how to use it.’
‘Bastard’ it hurts to grunt when you are wounded. He flips me over so I can see how he shoves his knife, repeatedly, in me.