My hand moves.
Not consciously. Not with thought or planning.
It just moves on its own, like it isn't attached to my body.
His letter opener—ornate, sharp—sits on the edge of his desk, and it's suddenly in my palm. I don't remember picking it up. Don't think I make a conscious decision. I'm acting on instinct.
Alexei's still talking. Still touching me. Still saying something about masters and cages and pretty birds.
The blade goes into his neck.
Soft. That's the first thing I notice. How soft skin is. How easily it parts. It's like cutting through butter. The cliché is apt.
What no one prepares you for is the blood.
It sprays across my face. My chest. Warm and wet and copper-tasting when it hits my lips. It's almost comical in how much there is.
It's like something out of a movie.
Alexei makes a sound. Not a scream. More like surprise. A wet gurgle. I think he's choking, but I'm not sure. It feels like I'm far away, experiencing this from above instead of an active participant.
His hands go to his throat. Trying to stop it. Trying to hold himself together.
I pull the letter opener out.
Stab again.
And again.
And again.
"I'm—" Stab. "—not—" Stab. "—anyone's—" Stab. "—fucking—" Stab. "—PET!"
The last word comes out as a scream.
He's on the floor now. I don't remember him falling. Don't remember getting on top of him.
But I'm here. Stabbing down over and over.
The letter opener is slippery, and I take a second to adjust my grip. Feel it bite into my palm. I don't stop for more than a few seconds before I rain down more blows.
His blood is everywhere. On my hands. My arms. My face. My clothes.
In my mouth. In my eyes.
I can't see through it.
Can't breathe through it.
And yet, I can't stop. I don't until my arm gets tired.
I'm exhausted and shaking, breathing hard as I slam back into my mind.
When did I get on top of him? When did he fall?
I can barely hold the letter opener anymore.
My arm weighs a ton, and yet, I somehow manage to keep control of the handle.
