Tim shifts, and just when he’s about to shrug off my slacks, I lunge. My arm jerks forward, weak but desperate, my fingers curl around the base of the knife, and before I can think, I drive it into his shoulder; it sinks in deep. His body jolts. His mouth opens wide, and this time, even through the muffle in my ear, I hear him.
A scream. Loud, raw, and real, that almost pulls a smile through my lips despite the pain in my head.
He scrambles off me, stumbling back like he’s been shot, clutching at his shoulder. The knife sticks to his shoulders like a reward for me, and his face twists into something I can’t name—confusion, pain, rage.
I don’t wait to see which one wins.
A relieved sound escapes me, and I push myself up, palms slipping on the floorboards. My muscles shake so bad I almost collapse again, but I drag myself upright.
My vision blurs, but I see red. Literally and figuratively. And then I see the bat.
The wooden baseball bat that’s leaning against the bench.
I don’t think. I move.
I stagger to it, fingers gripping around the handle, heavy and rough with old splinters. Tim groans from the floor, pushing up on his elbows.
His lips move, slurring something I can’t hear. Maybe it’s a threat. Maybe it’s a plea. It doesn’t matter.
I don’t care.
Because I’m already lifting the bat, already swinging, pouring every drop of rage, fear, and hatred into that motion.
The wood cracks against the side of his skull before he can fully rise. The sound cuts through the fog in my head, a thick, brutal crack that I feel in my chest. His body jerks sideways and slams to the floor with a heavy thud.
I hear a groan, wet and guttural. There’s blood on the bat now, on the floor, on him. It’s dark and smeared, and it only fuels something inside me. Not panic. Not regret.
Survival.
I drop the bat.
My hands tremble, but I climb on top of him anyway. My knees pin his sides. He’s dazed, half-conscious, blood leaking from his temple and painting his face in something that should make me sick. It doesn’t.
The knife is still lodged in his shoulder, the handle glinting like it’s daring me.
I grab it and yank it out.
Warm blood gushes over my fingers and down his clothes. It’s thick, slippery. He gasps—a gurgling sound that barely registers.
“Lucas—w-wait—” he chokes out.
But I’m not listening. Not anymore.
I don’t wait.
I use that same knife and stab him again.
It sinks into his stomach like it belongs there. His eyes bulge, and his mouth opens in a shocked, wet cry—blood pools on his lips.
And again
My arms shake from the effort, but I push down harder.
And again.
His body convulses, trying to fight, but it’s too late. It’s far too late.
Somewhere in the blur of movement and muffled sound, he’s groaning, struggling, but it all feels far away, like I’m watching someone else do it. Like I’m outside my own body.
