Multiple and short stories.

He had it comin'

He ran into my knife... He ran into my knife ten times.

The sun caressed my cheek, through the window, as I put the key in the lock. The door behind me opened and I saw Elsa come out of her apartment with a garbage bag in hand. We greeted each other with a smile, she followed her path down the stairs and I finally turned the key to get into my home.

I hung my coat on the nearest couch, leaving my bag on the seat. My body was heavy due to the long day I had and I could only think of soaking in the bathtub for an hour, at least. My eyes went to the clock that hung on the wall. There was no time to relax soon, but there was enough time to change my clothes and go to the bathroom for some minutes.

I leveled the water until it was warm. My cold hands appreciated it, as did my greasy face. I watched as the makeup slid onto my chin and then fell into the sink.

Shit, I forgot to tie my hair. 

Several strands stuck to my cheeks so I grabbed my hair and shaped it into a bun on the top of my head.

My reflection was not able to smile at me. My eyes made no effort to hide the fatigue. The makeup served me to cover those horrible dark circles and the bruise near the temple. After scrubbing my face a bit more with soap, I chilled the water and grabbed what I could with one of my hands. Then I brought my eye close to it and let the bruise rest there for a few moments. When I didn't felt the cold anymore, I went to the kitchen.

A deep sigh left my chest as I looked inside the refrigerator: A couple of onions, half a red pepper that was beginning to crinkle, what seemed to be a pound of carrot, some cheese, and half a raw chicken thawed from yesterday. Half-open yogurt was not on the menu, as well as milk, or a couple of jams, not even fruits, except for a lemon that I grabbed with the rest of the things.

I did bring out the milk and pour myself a glass, needing something refreshing; then I put it back.

After washing the vegetables and turning on a stove so that the pot was heating up, I took the only big knife in the kitchen and started to cut the chicken into pieces, taking it to the pot with a cupple of water to prevent it from sticking to the bottom. Then I proceeded to cut into strips all the vegetables that I had taken from the refrigerator and threw them around the chicken, covering the pot with its lid.

As I started to slice the lemon, I heard the key in the door, followed by the turn of the doorknob. Without letting go of the knife, 'cause I was taking just a moment, I brought the glass of milk to my mouth with my free hand.

"YOU BEEN SCREWING THE MILKMAN?", I heard as firm footsteps approached to the kitchen.

I had barely swallowed the milk when the glass was snatched from my hand and thrown against the wall. He spat in my face, angry, impulsive. Anger blinded him.

"What? What the hell is wrong with you, Wilbur?", I replied trying to get away from his huge body. My fingers clenched around the handle of the knife but I wasn't aware of it.

"YOU BEEN SCREWING THE MILKMAN, YOU SLUTY UNFAITHFUL BITCH", he had gripped my hand, that had previously been holding the glass, and then guided his grip to my wrist.

"NO, I DIDN'T. STOP SAYING NONSENSE," I implored him trying to release, making effort to he can loose his grabb around my wrist, at least enought to he didn't hurt me.

A couple more insults came out of his mouth. Screams that I couldn't understand, that fear wouldn't let me process.

I heard how the water in the pot began to boil.

"Wilbur, calm down. I've been working all day, I'm tired, dinner will be ready soon, just the way you like it ..."

His heavy hand reached my face. Soon half of my vision went dark and small points of light appeared afterwards.

"YOU, BITCH. YOU, TO WHOM I HAVE GIVEN IT ALL. DO YOU PAY ME SO? SLEEPING WITH ANYONE WHO COMES?"

I couldn't understand his mind. Where had he gotten those ideas from? His voice continued to rise above my thoughts and I kept trying to break free from his grasp, with him drawing closer in my attempts to pull away. He wasted no time in throwing any other object within his reach toward a wall.

Then I saw it: my end. His eyes lost all trace of sensitivity and he tried to rush towards me, mad with rage. Instinctively I tried to stop him with the only hand I had free, forgetting what I already was holding. Bewilderment crossed both glances. He didn't understand what had stopped him, and I didn't understand why he had stopped. We both lowered our gaze, finding the knife stuck in his abdomen.

Soon his grip was weakening and I was able to release myself. I withdrew the knife but did not drop it. I rushed to get a phone, awkwardly dialing the emergency number, and waiting for the tone to end with someone answering the call.

"You'll see when I get through this," I heard with difficulty from the kitchen, while a voice appeared from the other side of the call. The greeting was left in the middle when I pressed the button to cut the communication.

I knew that I should have stayed on the phone, giving my home information, trying to tell about the accident that had happened; because it had been that, an accident.

It happened so fast ...

It was an accident.

A foolish and careless accident.

I knew I should stop his blood and wait for an ambulance to arrive. I knew I had to save his life, even if he had been about to take mine from me.

When I was by his side, I observed him kneeling on the ground, with his hands on his belly and his gaze lost in the darkness of blood. I withdrew his hands with one of mine. He looked at me, I looked at him. Then I stuck the knife back in, certainly not in the same place even if I wanted to. He fell backwards and I straddled his body.

Three... four...

"Stop ...", he begged me.

Five... six...

The knife went in and out of his body; rage clouded my judgment.

It wasn't until the tenth time that I stopped, being able to notice that his life no longer belonged to this world. I was not aware of his death until I was able to regain my senses and calm my mind, my entire body.

Then all I know is that I saw my hands full of blood and I didn't know what to do. I also didn't move when the door was kicked open, or when they put handcuffs on my wrists.

I couldn't react because I couldn't understand what just happened.

A few hours later I was more self-aware. I was sitting on an uncomfortable cold chair; the kind that are cheap because they have the only purpose of supporting an ass that will most likely go to jail.

"I'll ask you one more time. Why did you do it?", I observed the detective who was standing in front of me, with her hands resting on the table that tries to separate us.

"If you'd have been there, if you'd have seen it ...", for a moment I looked down at my hands: they had been awkwardly washed after the DNA was extracted, but there were still traces of blood under my nails. I turned back to her with a cynical smile on my lips, pride in my eyes, and anger in my voice. "I betcha you would have done the same".