I grab the knife and jump up on the bed then leap off of it as Mark tries to run through the door. I land against his back and wrap myself around his body causing him to stumble and almost fall.
“Get the fuck off of me!” he screams, his voice strained and on the verge of giving out completely.
“Did you get the fuck off of me when I told you to?” I yelled back. “Did you stop touching me when I begged you to? No, you didn’t. You sick fuck!”
“What? You asked for it!” Mark replies as he fights with my arms and tries to pull the knife from my hand.
“Say you’re sorry!” I scream at him as I hold the knife to his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he says instantly, and I don’t believe a word of it is sincere.
“I don’t believe you,” I whisper, and then stab the knife into his chest, the blade nicking his ribs as it slides into him.
He screams then drops to his knees as he attempts to grab the knife handle. “I’m sorry,” he cries out as he sobs, blood sprayings from between his lips.
I’m sorry echoes repeatedly through the apartment with every stab and slice of the knife I deliver to him. Until, eventually, there are no more sorry’s, and there is no more Mark.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Please help me,” I whisper to Lydia when she cracks open her door.
